THEY  COULDN'T  SHOOT  HIM— HE  \VAS  GOING  TOO  FAST  (page  173) 


THE  GOLDEN  WEST  BOYS 

INJUN  AND  WHITEY 
TO  THE  RESCUE 


BY 

WILLIAM  S.  HART 


AUTHOR  OF 

INJUN   AND  WHITEY  AND 

INJUN  AND  WHITEY  STRIKE  OUT  FOR 

THEMSELVES,  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

HAROLD  CUE 


GROSSET     &     DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS  NEW    YORK 

M*de  in  the  United  Sutei  of  Amenc* 


COPWUGHT,  1922,  BY  WILLIAM  S. ! 
ALL  BIGHTS  RESERVED 


HBVTSD  IN  THE  U.&A. 


PS 


PREFACE 

In  the  Boys9  Golden  West  Series  I  have  done  my 
best  to  present  to  its  readers  the  West  that  I  knew  as 
a  boy. 

Frontier  days  were  made  up  of  many  different 
kinds  of  humans.  There  were  men  who  were 
muddy-bellied  coyotes,  so  low  that  they  hugged  the 
ground  like  a  snake.  There  were  girls  whose  cheeks 
were  so  toughened  by  shame  as  to  be  hardly  know- 
able  from  squaws.  There  were  stoic  Indians  with 
red-raw,  liquor-dilated  eyes,  peaceable  and  just 
when  sober,  boastful  and  intolerant  when  drunk. 
And  then  there  were  those  White  Men,  those  mould- 
ers, those  makers  of  the  great,  big  open-hearted 
West,  that  had  not  yet  been  denatured  by  nesters  and 
wire  fences,  men  to  whom  a  Colt  gun  was  the  court 
of  last  appeal  and  who  did  not  carry  a  warrant  in 
their  pockets  until  it  was  worn  out,  men  who  faced 
staggering  odds  and  danger  single-handed  and 
alone,  men  who  created  and  worked  out  and  made 
an  Ideal  Civilization,  —  a  country  where  doors 
were  left  unlocked  at  night  and  the  windows  of  the 
v 


623075 


PREFACE 

mind  were  always  open,  —  men  who  were  always 
kind  to  the  weak  and  unprotected,  even  if  they  did 
have  hoofs  and  horns,  men  like  William  B.  (Bat) 
Masterson  and  Wyatt  Earp.  They  and  their  kind 
made  the  frontier,  that  Great  West  which  we  can 
now  look  back  upon  as  the  most  romantic  era  of  our 
American  History. 

I  love  it;  I  love  all  that  was  ever  connected  with  it; 
and  to  all  those  who  are  in  sympathy  with  my  crude 
efforts  to  set  forth  what  little  I  know,  to  each  and 
every  boy  who  feels  a  choke  in  his  throat  when  he 
reads  the  closing  lines  of  "In  Memory,"  I  say,  I 
have  a  choke  in  my  throat  too,  and  I  am  silently 
clutching  your  hand,  for  that  red  boy  has  crossed 
the  Big  Divide  and  gone  to  the  Happy  Hunting 
Grounds,  and  the  white  boy  is  saying  Farewell. 

THE  AUTHOR 


CONTENTS 

I.  AN  ARRIVAL  I 

II.  A  SURPRISE                                         ,  13 

III.  MYSTERY  26 

IV.  SOLUTION  39 
V.  BUNK-HOUSE  TALK  51 

VI.  BOOTS  66 

VII.  EDUCATION  AND  OTHER  THINGS  77 

VIII.  INJUN  TALKS  87 

IX.    FISH-HOOKS  AND  HoOKY  Il5 

X.  A  HARD  JOB  129 

XL  THE  T  UP  AND  DOWN  139 

XII.  FELIX  THE  FAITHLESS  150 

XIII.  A  FOOL'S  ERRAND  160 

XIV.  THE  STAMPEDE  170 
XV.  THE  CATTLE-SHEEP  WAR  185 

XVI.  "MEDICINE"  206 

XVII.  "THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  WEST"  218 

XVIII.  WONDERS  229 

XIX.  THRESHING-TIME  235 

XX.  THE  STORY  OF  THE  CUSTER  FIGHT  247 

XXI.  UNREST  263 

XXII.  THE  NEW  ORDER  271 

XXIII.  PIONEER  DAYS  290 

XXIV.  "!N  MEMORY"  299 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

THEY  COULDN'T  SHOOT  HIM — HE  WAS  GOING 

TOO  FAST  Frontispiect 

IN  FRONT  OF  THEM  STOOD  SITTING  BULL  16 

ADVANCING  INTO  THE  ROAD  WITH  BOTH  FRONT 
PAWS  EXTENDED  I2O 

THE  MAN'S  FIGURE  DISAPPEARED  THROUGH 
THE  OPENING,  THE  BUCKET  FALLING  FROM 
HIS  HANDS,  202 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO 
THE  RESCUE 


CHAPTER  I 
AN  ARRIVAL 

THERE  was  no  doubt  that  affairs  were  rather 
dull  on  the  Bar  O  Ranch;  at  least  they  seemed 
so  to  "Whitey,"  otherwise  Alan  Sherwood. 
Since  he  and  his  pal,  "Injun,"  had  had  the  ad- 
ventures incidental  to  the  finding  of  the  gold  in 
the  mountains,  there  had  been  nothing  doing. 
So  life  seemed  tame  to  Whitey,  to  whom  so 
many  exciting  things  had  happened  since  he 
had  come  West  that  he  now  had  a  taste  for 
excitement. 

It  was  Saturday,  so  there  were  no  lessons,  and 
it  was  a  relief  to  be  free  from  the  teachings  of 
John  Big  Moose,  the  educated  Dakota,  who 
acted  as  tutor  for  Injun  and  Whitey.  Not  that 
John  was  impatient  with  his  pupils.  He  was  too 
I 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

patient,  if  anything,  his  own  boyhood  not  being 
so  far  behind  him  that  he  had  forgotten  that 
outdoors,  in  the  Golden  West,  is  apt  to  prove 
more  interesting  to  fifteen-year-old  youth  than 
printed  books  —  especially  when  one  half  the 
class  is  of  Indian  blood. 

As  Whitey  stood  near  the  bunk  house  and 
thought  of  these  things,  his  eye  was  attracted 
by  a  speck  moving  toward  him  across  the 
prairie.  He  watched  it  with  the  interest  one 
might  have  in  a  ship  at  sea ;  as  one  watches  in  a 
place  in  which  few  moving  things  are  seen.  The 
speck  was  small,  and  was  coming  toward  Whitey 
slowly. 

From  around  the  corner  of  the  bunk  house 
Injun  approached.  It  will  be  remembered  by 
those  who  have  read  of  Injun  that  he  was  very 
fond  of  pink  pajamas.  As  garments,  pink  paja- 
mas seemed  to  Injun  to  be  the  real  thing.  It  had 
been  hard  to  convince  him  that  they  were  not 
proper  for  everyday  wear,  but  when  he  was  half 
convinced  of  this  fact,  he  had  done  the  next 
best  thing,  and  taken  to  a  very  pink  shirt.  This, 
tucked  in  a  large  pair  of  men's  trousers,  below 
2 


AN  ARRIVAL 


which  were  beaded  moccasins,  was  Injun's  cos- 
tume, which  he  wore  with  quiet  dignity. 

"What  do  you  s'pose  that  is?"  asked  Whitey, 
pointing  at  the  speck. 

"Dog,"  Injun  answered  briefly. 

"A  dog!"  cried  Whitey,  who,  though  he  had 
never  ceased  to  wonder  at  Injun's  keenness  of 
sight,  was  inclined  to  question  it  now.  "What 
can  a  dog  be  doing  out  there?" 

"Dunno,"  Injun  replied.  "Him  dog."  Injun's 
education  had  not  as  yet  sunk  in  deep  enough 
to  affect  his  speech. 

Whitey  again  turned  his  eyes  toward  the  ob- 
ject, which  certainly  was  moving  slowly,  as 
though  tired,  and,  as  the  boys  watched,  sure 
enough,  began- to  resolve  itself  into  the  shape  of 
a  dog.  Here  at  last  was  something  happening 
to  break  the  dullness  of  the  day.  A  strange  dog 
twenty-five  miles  from  any  place  in  which  a  dog 
would  naturally  be. 

Furthermore,  when  the  animal  was  near 
enough  to  be  seen  distinctly,  he  furnished  an- 
other surprise.  He  was  entirely  unlike  any  of 
the  dogs  of  that  neighborhood  —  the  hounds, 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

collies,  or  terriers.  He  was  white,  short,  chunky. 
His  head  was  very  large  for  his  size,  his  jaw 
undershot,  his  mouth  enormous,  and  his  lower 
lip  drooped  carelessly  over  a  couple  of  fangs  on 
each  side.  Under  small  ears  his  eyes  popped 
almost  out  of  his  head,  and  his  snub  nose  could 
scarcely  be  said  to  be  a  nose  at  all.  From  a  wide 
chest  his  body  narrowed  until  it  joined  a  short, 
twisted  tail,  and  his  front  legs  were  bowed,  as 
though  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  riding  a 
horse  all  his  life. 

Injun  gazed  at  this  strange  being  with  some- 
thing as  near  surprise  as  he  ever  allowed  him- 
self. "Him  look  like  frog,"  he  declared. 

"Why,  it's  a  bulldog,  an  English  bulldog!" 
exclaimed  Whitey,  who  had  seen  many  of  this 
breed  in  the  East. 

"More  like  bullfrog,"  Injun  maintained  sol- 
emnly. "What  him  do  —  eat  bulls?" 

The  brute's  appearance  surely  was  forbidding 
enough,  and  if  Injun  had  been  subject  to  fear, 
which  he  was  n't,  he  would  have  felt  it  now.  He 
did  not  know,  as  many  better  informed  people 
do  not,  that  beneath  this  breed's  fierce  appear- 
4 


AN  ARRIVAL 


ance  lies  the  deepest  of  dog  love  for  a  master  — 
and  that's  a  pretty  deep  love  —  and  that  no  other 
"friend  of  man"  holds  gentler,  kinder  feeling 
for  the  human  race  than  this  queerly  shaped 
animal.  And  this  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he 
owes  the  very  queerness  of  his  appearance  to 
man,  who  has  had  him  bred  in  that  shape, 
through  countless  generations,  to  the  end  that 
the  poor,  faithful  beast  may  do  brutal  deeds  in 
the  bull  ring  and  the  dog  pit. 

Whitey  did  not  know  all  this  —  that  the  wide 
jaws  were  designed  for  a  grip  on  the  enemy,  the 
snub  nose  to  permit  breathing  while  that  grip 
was  held,  the  widespread  legs  to  secure  a  firm 
ground  hold;  in  short,  that  he  was  looking  at  an 
animal  built  for  conflict,  which  had  the  courage 
of  a  lion  where  his  enemies  were  concerned,  and 
the  love  of  a  wild  thing  for  its  young  where  its 
human  friends  were  concerned. 

But  Whitey  knew  the  latter  part  of  it —  that 
bulldogs  were  friendly,  and  usually  misunder- 
stood, and  he  proceeded  to  let  Injun  in  on  bis 
knowledge.  "You  needn't  be  afraid  of  him,*' 
he  said. 

I 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

"No  'fraid,  but  no  go  too  close,"  replied  the 
cautious  Injun. 

Now  that  this  dog  was  in  reach  of  humans  he 
sat  down,  opened  his  cave-like  mouth,  allowing  a 
few  inches  of  tongue  to  loll  out,  panted,  and  look- 
ed amiably  at  the  boys.  He  certainly  was  tired. 

"He's  not  only  tired,  he's  thirsty,"  said 
Whitey,  and  ran  to  the  stable  for  water. 

And  while  he  was  gone  the  bulldog  and 
Injun  looked  at  each  other  —  Injun  with  his 
bronze  skin,  his  long,  straight  hair,  his  calm 
face,  and  his  steady,  dark  eyes.  This  descendant 
of  thousands  of  fighting  men  regarded  that  de- 
scendant of  thousands  of  fighting  dogs.  And 
what  they  thought  of  each  other  the  dog  couldn't 
tell,  and  Injun  didn't,  but  ever  after  they  were 
friends. 

Presently  Whitey  returned  from  the  stable 
with  a  pan  of  water,  and  with  Bill  Jordan,  fore- 
man of  the  Bar  0,  Charlie  Bassett,  Buck  Hig- 
gins,  and  Shorty  Palmer,  all  the  cowpunchers 
who  happened  to  be  on  the  place.  They  all  knew 
bulldogs,  and  they  regarded  the  newcomer  with 
awe  and  respect. 

6 


AN  ARRIVAL 


Whitey  put  the  water  before  the  dog,  who, 
after  favoring  him  with  a  grateful  glance  and  a 
quiver  of  his  stub  tail,  went  to  it. 

"He's  sure  awful  dry,"  Bill  said.  "Ought  t' 
take  him  up  to  Moose  Lake.  Looks  like  that  pan 
o'  water  won't  even  moisten  him." 

"Where  d'ye  reck'n  he  come  from?"  asked 
Shorty. 

"Dunno." 

"Mebbe  he  was  follerin*  a  wagon,  an*  got 
lost,"  Buck  Higgins  suggested  hopefully. 

"Wagon  nothin'!"  snorted  Bill.  "Nobody  in 
these  parts'd  have  a  dog  like  that,  an'  if  they 
did,  what  would  he  be  doin'  follerin'  a  wagon? 
He  ain't  built  to  run,  he's  built  to  fight." 

Where  the  dog  had  come  from  was  something 
of  a  mystery.  Neighbors  were  not  near  by,  in 
those  days,  in  Montana,  the  nearest  being  four- 
teen miles  off,  and  the  railway  twenty-two,  and 
nothing  there  but  a  water  tank.  There  was  some 
discussion  regarding  the  matter  which  ended  in 
a  deadlock.  It  was  certain  that  none  of  the 
ranchmen  in  the  vicinity  owned  such  a  dog, 
and  even  so,  or  if  a  visitor  owned  him,  how 
7 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

would  he  get  to  the  Bar  O?  Walk,  with  "them 
legs"? 

While  the  discussion  went  on,  the  subject  of  it 
gulped  down  large  chunks  of  beef  which  Whitey 
had  begged  from  the  cook,  and  after  that  he 
went  with  the  men  and  boys  to  the  ranch  house, 
where,  with  an  apologetic  leer,  and  a  wiggle  of 
his  tail,  he  stretched  himself  on  the  veranda,  and 
fell  into  a  deep  sleep.  He  was  very  grateful,  but 
he  was  also  very  tired. 

In  a  lonely  ranch  house  matters  are  of  concern 
which  would  create  little  comment  in  a  city. 
This  dog's  coming  was  in  the  nature  of  an  event 
at  the  Bar  O.  Bill,  the  foreman,  and  all  the 
punchers  were  ready  to  neglect  work  for  a  con- 
siderable time  and  talk  about  it.  Even  Injun 
occasionally  looked  interested.  But  all  the  talk 
could  not  solve  the  problem  of  the  animal's 
presence. 

The  only  one  who  knew  lay  sleeping  on  the 
veranda  and  couldn't  tell.  It  isn't  likely  that  he 
dreamed,  but  if  he  did  it  might  have  been  of 
being  tied  to  the  handle  of  a  trunk  in  an  overland 
limited  baggage  car;  of  the  train's  stopping  for 
8 


AN  ARRIVAL 


water  at  a  lonely  tank;  of  the  earthy,  whole- 
some country  smell  that  came  through  the  door, 
left  open  for  coolness. 

There  had  been  a  stirring  in  the  grass  near  the 
track.  A  glimpse  of  an  animal  that  looked  some- 
thing like  a  fox  and  something  like  a  wolf,  and 
wasn't  either  one,  a  wild  animal  that  was  sneak- 
ing around  the  train  for  the  odd  bits  of  food  that 
were  sometimes  left  in  its  wake.  As  the  pungent 
scent  of  this  beast  reached  the  bulldog's  snub 
nose,  the  leash  that  held  him  to  the  trunk  became 
a  thing  of  little  worth.  With  a  violent  lurch  he 
broke  it,  leaped  from  the  door,  landed  sprawling 
alongside  the  track,  and  was  off  in  pursuit  of  the 
strange  animal. 

Now,  any  one  who  knows  how  a  bulldog  is 
built  and  how  a  coyote  is  built  can  imagine  how 
much  chance  the  first  has  to  catch  the  second. 
The  dog  followed  by  sight,  not  by  scent.  With 
his  head  held  as  high  as  his  short  neck  would 
allow  he  dashed  on.  The  coyote  didn't  bother 
very  much.  After  getting  a  good  start  he 
doubled  on  his  tracks  for  a  little  way,  turned 
aside,  and  sat  down.  And  if  he  wasn't  too  mean 
9 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

to  laugh,  he  may  at  least  have  smiled  as  his 
enemy  rushed  forward  toward  nowhere. 

Then  that  bulldog  ran  and  ran  until  he 
couldn't  run  any  more.  Then  he  walked  till  he 
couldn't  walk  any  farther.  Then  he  slept  all 
night,  while  other  coyotes  howled  dismally 
near  by.  And  in  the  morning  he  started  off  again, 
thinking  he  was  going  toward  the  train  and  his 
sorrowful  master,  really  going  in  the  opposite 
direction.  But  there  was  one  thing  that  man 
hadn't  taught  him  to  do  in  all  the  years,  and  that 
was  to  quit,  so  he  kept  on.  And  at  last,  as  any 
one  will  who  keeps  going  long  enough,  he  had  to 
arrive  somewhere  and  he  reached  the  Bar  O 
Ranch. 

So  you  and  I  and  the  dog  know  how  he  got 
there,  but  Bill  Jordan,  the  punchers,  and  the 
boys  didn't,  and  presently  they  gave  up  trying 
to  figure  it  out. 

"Tain't  likely  his  owner'll  show  up,  so  he's 
ours,"  said  Bill  Jordan. 

"He's  Whitey's,"  Buck  Higgins  maintained. 
"He  saw  him  first." 

This  law  was  older  than  any  ranch  house,  or 
10 


AN  ARRIVAL 


any  cowpuncher,  so  it  held  good,  and  Whitey 
became  the  proud  owner  of  the  dog.  The  matter 
of  his  name  came  next  in  importance.  Of  course 
he  had  one,  and  he  was  awakened,  and  asked  to 
respond  to  as  many  dog  names  as  the  party 
could  think  of.  These  were  many,  running  from 
Towser  to  Nero,  but  they  brought  no  response 
from  the  sleepy  animal. 

"Must  be  somep'n  unusual,"  Buck  Higgins 
decided,  and  he  ventured  on  "Alphonse"  and 
"Julius  Caesar,"  but  they  didn't  fit. 

"Well,  we  jest  nachally  got  t'  give  him  a 
name,"  said  Shorty  Palmer. 

Again  the  list  was  gone  over,  but  nothing 
seemed  quite  right.  "Oughta  be  somep'n'  'pro- 
priate,"  said  Bill  Jordan.  "How  'bout  Moses? 
He  was  lost  in  th'  wilderness." 

"Wilderness  nothin'!"  objected  Buck.  "In 
the  bullrushes.  Them  ain't  prairie  grass." 

"Besides,"  said  Whitey,  "he  ought  to  have 
a  fighting  name.  Napoleon!'' 

"Tain't  English." 

"Wellington." 

"Too  long." 

II 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

As  he  seemed  to  have  no  choice  in  naming  his 
own  dog,  Whitey  turned  in  despair  to  Injun,  who 
had  stood  solemnly  by.  "How  about  you?" 
Whitey  asked.  "Haven't  you  a  name  to  sug- 
gest?" 

The  dog  knew  that  he  was  the  subject  of  the 
talk,  and  possibly  felt  that  he  ought  to  keep 
awake,  for  he  sat  on  the  veranda  and  blinked  at 
the  humans.  Injun  gazed  at  him  stolidly. 

"Huh!"  he  grunted.  "Sittin'  Bull." 

"Great!"  cried  all  the  others. 

This  matter  settled,  the  men  went  away. 
Sitting  Bull  stretched  himself  out  on  the  veranda 
and  again  fell  asleep,  and  Whitey  told  Injun 
that  the  dog's  coming  probably  was  a  good  omen. 
That  there  ought  to  be  something  doing  on  the 
ranch  now. 


CHAPTER  II 
A  SURPRISE 

IT  was  early  morning,  and  the  Bar  O  Ranch 
slept,  heedless  of  the  keen  late-autumn  air  that 
had  in  it  just  a  faint,  brisk  hint  of  the  fall  frosts 
to  come.  Whitey  came  out  of  the  ranch  house 
and  moved  toward  the  stable.  Sitting  Bull 
trudged  after  him. 

The  dog  was  entirely  rested,  having  slept  the 
better  part  of  two  days  and  nights.  He  seemed 
to  know  that  Whitey  was  his  new  owner.  Dogs 
have  an  instinct  for  that  sort  of  thing.  And 
though  Bull  was  civil  and  friendly  enough  with 
every  one  else  on  the  ranch,  he  took  to  Whitey 
by  selection. 

At  six  o'clock  each  night  Bull  sat  near  the 
ranch-house  front  door  as  though  waiting  for 
some  one.  He  waited  a  long  time.  Bill  Jordan, 
who  prided  himself  on  what  he  knew  about  dogs, 
and  men,  said  that  Bull's  former  owner  prob- 
ably was  a  city  man,  and  was  in  the  habit  of 
13 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

coming  home  at  six;  that  the  dog  was  waiting 
for  him  to  appear.  Be  that  as  it  may,  in  die 
days  to  come  Bull  gave  up  this  custom.  No  one 
knew  what  he  felt  about  the  loss  of  his  old 
master.  He  became  a  Montana  dog.  The  city 
was  to  know  him  no  more. 

Now  he  waddled  along  after  VVhitey,  who 
was  making  for  a  straw  stack,  near  the  stable. 
Among  the  field  mice,  gophers,  rabbits,  and  such 
that  thought  this  stack  was  a  pretty  nice  place 
to  hang  around,  were  two  hens  that  were  of  die 
same  opinion.  At  least  they  made  their  nests 
.in  the  stack  and  laid  their  eggs  there.  And 
they  were  the  only  hens  that  the  Bar  O  boasted, 
for  hens  were  scarce  in  Montana  in  those  days 
—  as  Buck  said,  "almost  as  scarce  as  hen's 
teeth,  an*  every  one  knows  there  ain't  no  such 
thing." 

It  was  Whitey's  particular  business  to  gather 
the  eggs  of  those  hens,  which  they  saw  fit  to  lay 
early  in  the  morning.  So  Whitey  came  to  the 
stack  early,  to  be  ahead  of  any  weasels  or  ferrets, 
who  had  an  uncommon  fondness  for  eggs.  This 
morning  as  he  moved  around  the  stack  he  didn't 


A  SURPRISE 


find  any  eggs,  but  he  saw  something  black  and 
pointed  sticking  out  of  the  straw.  Whitey  took 
hold  of  the  object  and  pulled,  and  the  thing 
lengthened  out  in  his  hands. 

And  right  there  a  sort  of  shivery  feeling 
attacked  Whitey 's  spine  and  moved  up  until  it 
reached  his  hair,  which  straightway  began  to 
stand  on  end,  for  the  object  was  a  boot  and  in  it 
was  a  man's  leg.  The  boot  came,  followed  by 
the  leg,  followed  by  a  man.  From  what  might 
be  called  the  twin  straw  beds,  another  man 
emerged.  Both  sat  upright  in  the  straw  and 
rubbed  their  eyes.  Whitey  didn't  wait  to  see  if 
any  more  were  coming,  or  even  to  think  of  where 
he  was  going.  He  fled. 

Instinct  took  him  toward  the  ranch  house,  and 
good  fortune  brought  Bill  Jordan  out  of  the  door 
at  the  same  moment. 

"Bill!"  yelled  Whitey,  "there's  two  men  in 
the  straw  stack!" 

Bill  did  not  appear  unduly  excited.  "They 
ain't  eatin*  the  straw,  are  they?"  he  inquired. 

"No,  but  they  look  awfully  tough,  and  they 
nearly  gave  me  heart-disease,"  Whitey  panted, 
IS 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

/'If  tough-lookin'  folks  could  give  me  heart- 
disease,  I'd  of  bin  dead  long  ago,"  Bill  re- 
sponded. "Let's  go  an'  size  'em  up." 

Bill  strolled  to  the  stack  with  Whitey.  The 
two  men,  now  thoroughly  awake,  were  still 
sitting  upright  in  the  straw.  In  front  of  them 
stood  Sitting  Bull.  His  lower  jaw  was  sticking 
out  farther  than  usual,  and  he  was  watching  the 
men  and  awaiting  events. 

/'Hey!  Call  off  yer  dog,  will  ye?"  requested 
one  of  the  men. 

"He  ain't  mine,"  Bill  answered  calmly,  indi- 
cating Whitey.  "He's  his." 

/'Well,  get  him  to  call  him  off,"  said  the  man. 
"Every  time  we  move  he  makes  a  noise  like 
sudden  death." 

Whitey  summoned  Bull,  who  came  to  him 
obediently  enough,  and  the  men  rose  to  their 
feet,  and  stretched  themselves  and  brushed  off 
some  of  the  straw  that  clung  to  their  not  over- 
neat  attire.  They  were  not  as  bad-looking  as 
they  might  have  been,  neither  were  they  as  good- 
looking.  One  was  tall  and  slim  and  wore  a  dark 
beard.  The  other  was  almost  as  tall,  but,  being 
16 


IN  FRONT  OF  THEM  STOOD  SITTING  BULL 


A  SURPRISE 


very  fat,  did  not  look  his  height.  He  was  clean- 
shaven, or  would  have  been  had  it  not  been  for 
about  three  days'  stubbly  growth.  Their  clothes 
were  well-worn,  and  they  wore  no  collars,  but 
their  boots  were  good. 

"What  you  fellers  doin*  here?"  demanded 
Bill.  "Ain't  the  bunk  house  good  enough  for 
you?" 

"We  got  in  late,  an'  ev'body  was  in  bed," 
said  the  taller  of  the  two.  "We're  walkin' 
through  for  th'  thrashin'." 

"Well,  yer  late  for  that  too,"  said  Bill/ 

The  threshing  in  the  early  days  of  Montana 
was  an  affair  in  which  many  people  of  all 
sorts  took  part,  as  will  be  seen  later.  Bill  ques- 
tioned the  men,  and  their  story  was  brought  out. 
It  seemed  that  they  had  come  from  Billings,  in 
search  of  work  at  threshing.  The  taller,  thin  one 
was  named  Hank,  but  was  usually  called  "  String 
Beans,"  on  account  of  his  scissors-like  appear- 
ance. He  had  formerly  been  a  cowpuncher.  The 
other  had  been  a  waiter,  until  he  got  too  fat> 
then  he  had  become  a  cook.  Originally  named 
Albert,  after  he  had  waited  in  a  restaurant  for 
17 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THEJ^SCUE 

a  while  he  had  been  dubbed  "Ham  And,"  which, 
you  may  know,  is  a  short  way  of  ordering  ham 
and  eggs.  And  this  name  in  time  was  reduced  to 
"Ham." 

Bill  Jordan  did  not  seem  to  take  the  men 
seriously.  Their  names  may  have  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  his  attitude,  and  the  early  West 
was  not  over-suspicious,  anyway.  It  had  been 
said  that  "out  here  we  take  every  man  to  be 
honest,  until  he  is  proven  to  be  a  thief,  and  in 
the  East  they  take  every  man  to  be  a  thief,  until 
he  is  proven  to  be  honest."  You  can  believe  that 
or  not,  as  you  happen  to  live'  in  the  West  or  in 
the  East.  Besides,  Bill  could  make  use  of  the 
talents  of  String  Beans  and  Ham.  He  needed 
"hands"  to  work  on  the  ranch. 

When  Whitey  found  that  his  supposed  trag- 
edy was  turning  into  a  comedy,  he  felt  rather 
bad  about  it,  especially  as  Bill  was  inclined  to 
guy  him. 

"Lucky  you  didn't  shoot  up  them  two  fellers 

what's  named  after  food,"  Bill  said,  when  the 

strangers  had  retired  to  the  bunk  house.    "Or 

kr.ock  'em  out  with  some  of  them  upper-cuts 

IS 


A  SURPRISE 


you're  so  handy  in  passin'  'round."  For  a  boy, 
Whitey  was  an  expert  boxer. 

"What  was  I  to  think,  finding  them  that 
way?"  Whitey  retorted.  "And  they  don't  look 
very  good  to  me  yet." 

"Clothin'  is  only  skin  deep,"  said  Bill. 

Whitey  felt  called  on  to  justify  his  alarm.  "  It's 
not  only  their  clothes,"  he  said,  "but  their 
looks.  You  noticed  that  Bull  didn't  like  them, 
and  you  know  dogs  have  true  instinct  about 
judging  people." 

"Let  me  tell  you  somethin'  about  dogs,"  be- 
gan Bill,  who  usually  was  willing  to  tell  Whitey, 
or  anybody  else,  something  about  anything. 
"Dogs  is  supposed  to  be  democratic,  but  they 
ain't.  They  don't  like  shabby  men.  I'm  purty 
fond  of  dogs,  but  they  got  one  fault  —  they're 
snobs.  They  don't  like  shabby  men,"  Bill 
repeated  for  emphasis. 

As  Whitey  thought  of  this  he  remembered  that 
the  dogs  he  had  known  had  this  failing,  if  it  was 
a  failing.  He  also  tried  to  think  of  some  reason 
for  it,  so  he  could  prove  that  Bill  was  wrong,  but 
he  couldn't.  That  is,  he  couldn't  think  of  any- 
19 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

thing  until  Bill  had  gone  away  and  it  was  too 
late.  Then  it  occurred  to  him  that  it  was  only 
the  dogs  that  belonged  to  the  well-dressed  that 
disliked  the  poorly  dressed.  That  a  shabby 
man's  dog  loved  him  just  as  well  as  though  he 
wore  purple  and  fine  linen,  whatever  that  was. 
Whitey  looked  around  for  Bill  to  confound  him 
with  this  truth,  but  Bill  had  disappeared  —  a 
way  he  had  of  doing  the  moment  he  got  the 
better  of  an  argument. 

If  the  two  men  were  aching  to  work,  they  had 
not  long  to  suffer;  Bill  Jordan  soon  found  oc- 
cupation for  them.  Slim,  the  negro  cook,  had 
been  taken  with  a  "misery"  in  his  side,  and 
Ham  was  installed  in  his  place.  And  to  do  Ham 
justice  he  was  not  such  a  bad  cook.  The  ranch 
hands  allowed  that  he  couldn't  have  been  worse 
than  Slim,  anyway.  String  Beans  did  not  make 
so  much  of  a  hit  as  a  cowpuncher.  Bill  watched 
some  of  his  efforts,  and  said  that  though  he  was 
a  bad  puncher  he  was  a  good  liar  for  saying  he'd 
ever  seen  a  cow  before.  So  String  Beans  was 
sent  to  the  mine  to  work. 

This  quartz  mine,  up  in  the  mountains,  was 
20 


A  SURPRISE 


the  one  near  which  Injun  and  Whitey  had  had 
so  many  exciting  adventures.  Now  they  owned 
an  interest  in  it,  as  has  been  told,  though  Mr. 
Sherwood  and  a  tribe  of  Dakota  Indians  were 
the  principal  shareholders.  During  the  summer 
the  mine  had  been  undergoing  development,  and 
the  first  shipment  of  ore  was  soon  to  be  made. 
With  String  Beans  working  at  the  mine,  and 
Ham  improving  the  men's  digestion  as  a  cook, 
it  began  to  look  as  though  Whitey 's  idea  that 
they  were  desperate  characters  was  ill-founded. 
In  fact,  the  thought  had  almost  passed  from  his 
mind,  and  was  quite  forgotten  on  a  certain  Sat- 
urday. On  that  day  Injun  and  Whitey  were 
free  from  the  teachings  of  John  Big  Moose,  and 
were  out  on  the  plains  for  antelope.  They  didn't 
get  an  antelope,  didn't  even  see  one.  All  they 
got  were  appetites;  though  Whitey's  appetite 
came  without  calling,  as  it  were,  and  always 
excited  the  admiration  of  Bill  Jordan.  After 
dinner  that  evening  Whitey  went  to  the  bunk 
house.  Some  of  the  cowpunchers  were  in  from 
the  range,  and  Whitey  loved  to  hear  the  yams 
they  would  spin. 

21 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

So  he  lay  in  a  bunk  and  listened  to  a  number 
of  stories,  and  wondered  if  they  were  all  true  — 
and  it  is  a  singular  fact  that  some  of  them  were. 
But  Whitey's  day's  hunt  had  been  long,  and  his 
dinner  had  been  big,  and  his  eyes  began  to  droop. 

Buck  Higgins  was  in  the  midst  of  a  tale  about 
being  thrown  from  his  cayuse  and  breaking  his 
right  arm.  There  was  a  wild  stallion  in  this 
story,  which  every  puncher  in  seven  states  or  so 
had  tried  to  capture.  Now,  Buck,  with  his  right 
arm  broken,  naturally  had  to  throw  his  rope 
with  his  left,  and  his  manner  of  doing  that  took 
some  description.  It  was  during  this  that  in 
Whitey's  mind  he,  in  a  mysterious  way,  changed 
to  Buck,  or  rather  Buck  changed  to  Whitey, 
and  the  stallion  changed  to  an  antelope,  and 
pretty  soon  things  began  to  get  rather  vague 
generally. 

When  Whitey  awoke,  the  bunk  house  wa^ 
almost  dark.  How  long  he  had  been  lying  asleep 
he  did  not  know.  The  light  came  from  a  candle, 
and  presently  Whitey  heard  voices.  Three  men 
were  seated  near  by,  and  Whitey  was  about  to  get 
out  of  the  bunk,  when  he  recognized  the  voice 
22 


A  SURPRISE 


of  String  Beans,  and  something  held  him  back. 
It  was  evident  that  the  men  did  not  know  that 
he  was  there. 

Whitey  felt  something  warm  stir  against  him, 
and,  startled,  put  out  his  hand  and  encountered 
a  hairy  surface.  It  was  Sitting  Bull,  who  had 
crawled  into  the  bunk  after  Whitey  had  fallen 
asleep,  and  crowded  in  between  the  boy  and  the 
wall.  At  the  sound  of  String  Beans'  voice 
Whitey  felt  the  hair  along  Bull's  neck  rise.  He 
remembered  the  dog's  dislike  for  the  two  men, 
and  put  his  hand  over  Bull's  mouth  to  keep  him 
from  growling.  Whitey  was  glad  he  did  not 
snore.  He  might  now  have  a  chance  to  learn 
whether  the  two  were  on  the  level  or  not. 

For  the  moment  Whitey  had  some  qualms 
about  listening,  but  he  soon  dismissed  them. 
If  these  men  were  open  and  aboveboard,  why 
were  they  whispering  in  the  dimly  lighted  bunk 
house?  Whitey  had  never  been  able  to  over- 
come the  first  distrust  he  had  felt  for  String 
Beans  and  Ham.  He  also  had  a  feeling  that  he 
ought  to  justify  that  distrust,  that  in  a  way  it 
was  up  to  him.  So  he  continued  to  eavesdrop. 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

String's  tones  were  low,  and  did  not  come  to 
Whitey  distinctly.  This  was  unfortunate  in 
one  way,  but  fortunate  in  another,  for  had  the 
men  been  nearer  they  probably  would  have  seen 
the  boy.  Soon  another  voice  broke  in,  and 
Whitey  knew  it  as  that  of  "Whiff"  Gates,  a 
puncher  who  was  a  constant  smoker.  Then 
came  another  voice,  that  of  Ham  And. 

Whiff  Gates  did  not  bear  a  good  reputation, 
and  it  was  only  because  of  the  scarcity  of  help 
that  Bill  Jordan  kept  him  on.  As  Whitey  re- 
flected on  this,  and  the  "birds  of  a  feather  flock 
together"  idea,  he  kept  very  still.  His  patience 
was  soon  rewarded,  for  as  the  men  grew  more 
earnest  in  their  talk,  their  tones  became  louder, 
though  Whitey  could  not  hear  as  distinctly  as  he 
would  have  liked. 

However,  he  gathered  that  String  had  re- 
turned from  the  mine  on  account  of  an  injury 
to  his  foot,  caused  by  a  piece  of  rock  falling  on 
it.  That  there  had  been  some  excitement  at  the 
mine,  owing  to  a  "bug  hole"  being  discovered. 
Whitey  learned  afterwards  this  was  a  sort  of 
pocket  caused  by  the  dripping  of  water,  and  con- 
24 


A  SURPRISE 


taining  a  small  but  very  rich  quantity  of  ore. 
Whitey  also  heard  something  about  a  certain 
date,  on  which  the  three  were  to  be  at  a  certain 
place,  but  here,  to  his  disgust,  the  voices  were 
again  lowered,  as  if  in  caution. 

On  the  whole,  though  this  secret  meeting 
seemed  suspicious,  the  boy  did  not  learn  enough 
to  form  a  basis  for  action.  Presently  the  men 
went  away,  and  after  waiting  until  he  considered 
it  safe,  Whitey  left  the  bunk  house,  followed  by 
the  faithful  Bull.  Whitey  decided  not  to  tell 
Bill  Jordan  what  he  had  heard.  Bill  probably 
would  only  poke  fun  at  him  and  hand  him  one 
of  those  arguments  he  couldn't  answer. 

But  the  next  day  he  took  Injun  into  his  con- 
fidence. Injun  had  no  use  for  String  and  Ham, 
and  furthermore  was  a  person  who  could  keep  a 
secret.  And  here  was  something  for  the  boys  to 
keep  to  themselves  —  a  mystery,  —  something 
to  be  solved.  They  would  lie  low  and  await 
events.  It  made  them  feel  quite  important. 


CHAPTER  III 
MYSTERY 

AWAITING  events  did  not  seem  a  very  thrilling 
occupation.  Of  course,  there  was  always  John 
Big  Moose's  tutoring  to  fill  in  the  gaps,  but  that 
was  less  thrilling  than  just  waiting,  if  possible. 
The  teaching  took  place  in  the  big  living-room 
of  the  ranch  house,  a.  room  with  a  great  stone 
fireplace,  the  stone  for  which  had  been  carted 
down  from  the  mountains;  with  walls  decorated 
with  Indian  trophies  —  tomahawks,  bows  and 
arrows,  stone  pipes  and  hatchets,  knives  —  and 
with  beadwork,  snowshoes,  and  many  other 
interesting  things.  All  these  were  enough  to 
take  a  fellow's  mind  off  his  lessons,  and  besides 
there  was  the  floor,  with  its  bear  and  moose  and 
panther  skins,  each  with  its  history. 

And  outside,  viewed  through  the  big  windows, 
was  the  rolling  prairie,  with  the  touch  of  early 
fall  on  it,  sometimes  revealed  in  a  light  curtain 
of  haze,  at  which  a  fellow  could  gaze  and  imagine 
he  saw  the  squaws  of  the  savage  tribes  gathering 
26 


MYSTERY 


the  maize  for  the  coming  winter's  store,  while 
the  braves  rode  off  to  hunt  the  buffalo. 

Yes,  it  was  rather  distracting,  but  John  Big 
Moose  was  very  patient  about  the  lessons, 
though  he  had  been  eager  for  knowledge  himself. 
He  had  worked  his  way  through  a  Western  col- 
lege, spurred  on  by  the  hope  of  bettering  his 
people,  the  Dakotas,  and  he  had  bettered  them. 
And  when  Mr.  Sherwood,  Whitey's  father,  had 
gone  East,  with  the  understanding  that  John 
was  to  tutor  Whitey  and  Injun,  John  had  re- 
solved to  do  his  best. 

But  this  other  Injun,  Whitey's  pal,  was  not 
what  you  might  call  eager  for  knowledge.  Read- 
ing and  writing  were  all  right,  and  might  be  put 
to  some  practical  use,  but  arithmetic  seemed 
rather  useless,  and  when  it  came  to  the  "higher 
branches,"  geometry  and  trigonometry,  they 
loomed  up  to  Injun  like  a  bugbear  of  the  future. 
In  his  heart  Injun  pined  for  his  truly  loved  field 
of  study  —  the  great  outdoors. 

But  presently  there  came  a  slight  break  in 
the  dull  routine  of  words  and  figures  —  a  half- 
holiday.  The  first  shipment  of  ore  was  to  be 
27 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

made  from  the  mine.  John  Big  Moose  rep- 
resented his  tribe's  interest  in  this  mine,  and 
he  was  to  go  and  inspect  operations.  The  ore 
was  to  come  down  from  the  mountain  in  sacks, 
loaded  on  horse  and  muleback,  and  to  be  de- 
livered to  the  railroad  at  the  Junction,  a  small 
settlement  about  twenty  miles  south  of  the 
ranch. 

The  boys  thought  that  as  they  were  stock- 
holders in  the  mine,  they  ought  to  go  abng  and 
attend  to  this  matter,  too,  but  John  couldn't 
see  it  that  way.  He  compromised  on  a  half- 
holiday  for  them;  study  in  the  morning,  freedom 
in  the  afternoon.  So  that  morning  they  stuck 
to  their  lessons.  With  John  there  to  oversee 
them  they  might  neglect  their  studies.  With 
him  away,  and  the  boys  placed  on  their  honor, 
the  thing  wasn't  to  be  thought  of. 

And  here  it  might  be  repeated  that  Injun  had 
a  very  strong  sense  of  honor.  He  had  faults,  as 
most  of  us  have,  but  breaking  promises,  or  what 
he  considered  as  promises,  was  not  among  them. 

So  that  afternoon,  as  Injun  and  Whitey 
could  not  be  with  the  shipment  of  ore,  they  did 
28 


MYSTERY 


the  next  best  thing.  They  rode  off  into  the  foot- 
hills. And  on  a  grassy  hill  that  commanded  a 
widespread  view  of  the  plains,  they  looked  far 
off  over  the  prairie.  And  winding  across  it,  clear 
off  near  the  horizon,  they  saw  tiny  specks  which 
represented  mules  and  horses,  laden  with  the 
sacks  of  precious  ore,  and  its  escort  of  cow- 
punchers. 

That  evening  it  was  lonely  at  the  ranch,  Bill 
Jordan  and  the  other  men  being  at  the  Junction. 
String  Beans  nursed  his  sore  foot,  and  Ham  pre- 
pared dinner,  which  Injun  had  with  Whitey  in 
the  ranch  house.  Time  passed  and  still  the  men 
did  not  return.  Evidently  they  were  celebrating 
the  shipment  of  the  mine's  first  output,  or 
waiting  to  see  it  put  safely  aboard  the  train  at 
the  Junction.  So  Whitey  invited  Injun  to  spend 
the  night,  and  he  accepted  willingly,  as  it  gave 
him  a  chance  to  wear  the  pink  pajamas  that  he 
loved. 

Yawning  time  had  come  and  passed.  Whitey 
was  sleeping  soundly  and  dreamlessly,  when  he 
was  aroused  by  a  grip  on  his  arm.  It  was  Injun 
in  his  pink  pajamas. 

29 


INJUN  AND  WHTTEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

"Some  one  come,"  he  said. 

"Mebbe  it's  Bill  and  the  others,"  Whitey 
ventured. 

"Not  Bill  —  only  one  man,"  Injun  replied. 

The  coming  of  a  man  didn't  seem  important  to 
Whitey,  but  he  knew  Injun  must  have  had  some- 
thing on  his  mind,  or  he  wouldn't  have  waked 
him,  and  he  waited  for  his  friend  to  speak  more 
of  the  words  of  which  he  was  so  sparing.  The 
next  speech  was  not  long. 

"Look,"  said  Injun,  and  he  went  to  the  win- 
dow. 

Whitey  went  and  looked.  There  was  a  faint 
light  in  the  bunk  house,  and  another  down  by 
the  horse  corral.  As  the  boys  watched,  a  man 
came  out  of  the  bunk  house,  and  even  in  the 
dim  light  Whitey  recognized  him.  He  was 
String  Beans. 

"Why,"  whispered  Whitey,  "I  thought  he 
was  lame.  He  doesn't  even  limp." 

"Him  get  well,"  Injun  replied. 
The  light  at  the  corral  moved  toward  and 
joined  that  at  the  bunk  house,  and  the  two  re- 
vealed a  man  leading  three  horses. 
30 


MYSTERY 


"It's  Whiff!"  gasped  Whitey.  "I  thought  he 
was  with  the  men  at  the  Junction." 

"Him  get  back,"  Injun  grunted,  with  meaning. 

Absorbed  in  the  scene  being  enacted  before 
them,  the  boys  watched  in  silence. 

Bill  Jordan  had  said  that  Injun  slept  with 
his  mind  open;  that  most  Injuns  did;  that  if  they 
hadn't  done  that  all  these  years  there  wouldn't 
be  no  Injuns  —  and  no  doubt  Bill  was  right. 
But  any  way  you  thought  about  it,  it  was  re- 
markable that  the  slight  sound  outside  —  the 
thudding  of  a  horse's  hoofs  on  soft  ground,  or 
the  letting  down  of  the  bars  of  the  corral  — 
should  have  wakened  Injun.  It  probably  was 
not  the  sound  so  much  as  the  sense  of  something 
unusual,  something  threatening.  Furthermore, 
Injun  had  a  different  way  of  figuring  things 
from  Whitey.  Also  he  had  been  awake  longer, 
so  his  mind  had  a  better  start,  not  being  be- 
wildered by  sleep. 

"They're  up  to  something,"  said  Whitey. 

"Urn,"  grunted  Injun. 

Hie  two  men  went  into  the  bunk  house  and 
soon  came  cet  with  another  man  who  was  fat. 
31 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUI 

It  undoubtedly  was  Ham.  Each  man  carried  a 
saddle,  which  he  put  on  a  horse.  Then  they 
mounted  and  rode  away. 

A  cloud  moved  away,  like  a  curtain,  and  a 
full  moon  shed  its  light  over  the  scene  and  into 
the  window.  The  hour  must  have  been  late,  for 
the  moon  was  low.  Whitey  turned  and  looked 
at  Injun,  who  was  stolidly  watching  the  riders 
disappear. 

"Can  you  beat  that?"  Whitey  demanded. 
"String  Beans  walked  as  well  as  any  one.  I'll 
bet  he  wasn't  hurt  at  the  mine  at  all.  That  he 
was  just  pretending." 

"Uh,"  muttered  Injun. 

"Mebbe  they've  stolen  something,"  con- 
tinued Whitey. 

"No,  no  come  into  the  house,  me  hear  'em," 
said  Injun.  "In  bunk  house  nothin'  to  steal." 

Suddenly  Whitey  thought  of  the  negro  cook, 
the  only  other  man  on  the  place,  and  demanded, 
"Where's  Slim?" 

^Dunno,"  said  Injun,  and  followed  Whitey, 
who  shoved  his  feet  into  a  pair  of  slippers  and 
ran  hastily  from  the  room. 
3* 


MYSTERY 


The  bunk  house  was  dark,  the  men  having 
put  out  their  lanterns  before  they  rode  away. 
Whitey  groped  for  matches  and,  finding  one, 
lighted  a  lamp.  Slim  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 
Whitey  looked  at  Injun  in  wonder  and  alarm. 
Injun  looked  at  Whitey  with  no  expression  of 
any  kind. 

"Mebbe  they've  killed  Slim!"  cried  Whitey. 

"Mebbe,"  Injun  agreed. 

Sitting  Bull  had  silently  followed  the  boys, 
and  while  they  were  investigating  with  their 
eyes,  he  was  doing  the  same  with  his  nose.  His 
search  had  led  him  to  a  bunk,  and  with  his  fore 
paws  on  its  edge,  he  was  gazing  into  it,  his  head 
on  one  side  and  a  very  puzzled  expression  on  his 
face.  Bull  rarely  barked,  except  to  express  great 
joy,  and  he  never  was  afraid.  His  nose  had  told 
him  what  was  in  that  bunk;  the  curious  move- 
ments of  the  object  were  what  puzzled  him. 
Attracted  by  the  dog's  interest,  Injun  and 
Whitey  went  to  him. 

The  bedding  in  the  bunk  heaved  and  rolled 
from  side  to  side.  Whitey  reached  over  rather 
fearfully  and  pulled  down  the  upper  blankets, 
33 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

and  Slim  was  brought  to  view.  Not  only  was 
Slim  bound  and  gagged,  but  a  coat  was  tied 
around  his  head,  to  keep  him  from  hearing.  In 
fact,  about  the  only  thing  to  show  that  the  man 
was  Slim  was  his  black  hands. 

Injun  and  Whitey  hastily  removed  the  head 
covering  and  the  gag,  and  Whitey  eagerly  asked 
what  had  happened.  Slim  was  half  choked  and 
very  indignant. 

"I  dunno  what  happened  to  nobody,  'ceptin* 
to  me,"  he  gurgled.  "Gimme  a  drink  o'  watah. 
Tse  burnin'  up." 

While  Whitey  held  a  cup  of  water  to  Slim's 
lips,  Injun  struggled  with  his  bonds,  and  with 
great  difficulty  succeeded  in  releasing  him. 
Whitey  asked  a  hundred  questions  meanwhile, 
none  of  which  Slim  answered.  He  seemed  en- 
tirely absorbed  in  his  own  troubles,  and  when 
he  was  free,  he  carefully  felt  himself  all  over. 

"Dis  is  fine  foh  mah  misery,  fine!"  he  said 
bitterly. 

As  far  as  Whitey  had  ever  been  able  to  learn, 
a  "misery"  was  a  sort  of  rheumatism. 

"How  is  your  misery?"  he  asked,  despairing 
34 


MYSTERY 


of  getting  him  to  talk  about  anything  but  him- 
self. 

"Tehibul,  tehibul,"  groaned  Slim;  "an'  dey 
tie  me  wid  a  rawhide  rope,  too,  dat  jest  eat  into 
mah  flesh."  And  Slim  looked  venomously  down 
at  the  lariat  that  lay  at  his  feet. 

"Who  tied  you?"  Whitey  inquired. 

"I  dunno.  Wen  I  wakes  up  dis  yeah  rag  is 
bein'  jammed  into  mah  mouf,  an*  dis  yeah  coat 
bein'  wrapped  round  mah  haid,  an*  dat  dere 
rope  bein'  twisted  round  mah  body,  till  it  cuts 
mah  ahms  an*  legs  somethin'  scand'lus.  I  dunno 
who  dey  wuz,  but  dey  suttinly  wuz  thorough," 
Slim  admitted. 

"Then  you  didn't  hear  anything?"  Whitey 
demanded. 

"Heah?  I  couldn't  'a'  heard  a  elephant 
cough,"  Slim  declared. 

"Well,  Whiff  and  String  Beans  and  Ham  just 
rode  away,"  said  Whitey. 

"Dey  did?"  said  Slim.  Then  an  awful  thought 

came  to  him,   and    he    jumped   to  his  feet. 

"Wheah's  mah  watch?"  he  cried.   He  hastily 

fumbled  under  the  bedclothes,  and  brought  to 

35 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

light  an  enormous,  old-fashioned  silver  watch. 
Then  he  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  "An'  dat  Ham 
gone,  too!  Now,  how'm  I  goin'  t'  cook,  wid  dat 
misery  wuss'n  evah?" 

It  was  very  plain  to  Whitey  that  all  Slim 
could  think  about  the  affair  was  the  way  it 
concerned  him  personally.  Also,  there  was  no 
doubt  in  the  boy's  mind  that  the  absent  men 
were  bent  on  mischief.  Bill  and  the  other  cow- 
boys were  surely  making  a  night  of  it  at  the 
Junction,  in  celebration  of  the  gold  shipment. 
Whatever  was  to  be  done  in  the  matter  Whitey 
and  Injun  would  have  to  do.  By  this  time  Slim 
was  busily  rubbing  some  horse  liniment  on  his 
arms  and  legs. 

"Injun  and  I  will  see  what's  to  be  done. 
You  might  as  well  go  to  sleep,"  Whitey  said  to 
him. 

"Sleep!  Ah  couldn't  sleep  in  Mistah  Vander- 
bilt's  bed." 

"Well,  stay  awake,  then,"  said  Whitey,  as  he 
left  the  bunk  house,  followed  by  Injun. 

In  spite  of  Injun's  belief  that  the  men  had 
not  been  in  the  ranch  house,  the  boys  took  a 
36 


MYSTERY 


look  around,  but  nothing  had  been  disturbed. 
Then,  as  they  dressed,  they  talked  things  over. 
Whitey  was  not  sorry  that  Bill  Jordan  was 
away.  While  not  one  to  think  ill  of  people, 
Whitey  always  had  believed  that  String  and 
Ham  were  queer,  and  the  affairs  of  the  night 
seemed  to  point  to  the  truth  of  this.  If  Whitey 
could  learn  what  sort  of  mischief  the  men  were  up 
to,  it  would  be  a  feather  in  his  cap,  and  it  would 
give  him  great  satisfaction  to  say  "  I  told  you  so" 
to  Bill,  who  always  was  so  sure  of  himself.  And 
if  he  and  Injun  could  prevent  the  others  from 
committing  that  same  mischief,  the  boys  would 
be  something  like  heroes. 

As  Whitey  and  Injun  talked  the  matter  over, 
Whitey  reviewed  what  took  place  the  night  he 
overheard  the  whispered  conversation  in  the 
bunk  house. 

"They  talked  about  the  mine,"  he  said  to 
Injun,  "and  about  meeting  on  a  certain  date. 
What  day  of  the  month  is  it?"  he  asked.  % 

By  a  miracle  Injun  happened  to  know  the 
date,  for  John  Big  Moose  had  told  him  the 
day  in  September  on  which  the  ore  was  to  be 
37 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

shipped,  so  Injun  answered  briefly,  "Him 
thirty." 

"That  was  the  date!"  cried  Whitey.  "They 
said  the  thirtieth  of  September."  Other  scraps 
of  the  men's  whispered  talk  began  to  come  to 
Whitey's  mind,  and  to  have  meaning.  "They 
were  to  meet  on  that  date,  and  they  did.  That 's 
what  String  Beans  was  loafing  around  here  for, 
pretending  to  be  lame.  And  they  rode  south. 
Don't  you  see?" 

"Don't  see  nothin',"  Injun  answered. 

"Why,"  Whitey  declared,  jumping  to  his 
feet,  "they've  gone  toward  the  railroad;  toward 
the  water  tank,  where  all  the  trains  stop.  I  be- 
lieve they're  going  to  hold  up  the  gold  shipment. 
Come  on,  Injun,  let's  get  busy." 


CHAPTER  IV 
SOLUTION 

THE  moon  was  well  down  toward  the  western 
edge  of  the  prairie  when  the  boys  rode  away 
from  the  bunk  house.  They  rode  toward  the 
south,  in  pursuit  of  the  bandits,  as  they  now 
called  Whiff,  String,  and  Ham.  Whitey  and 
Injun  had  settled  on  this  course  shortly  after 
Whitey  had  decided  that  the  men  were  intent 
on  train  robbery.  There  were  several  reasons 
for  their  choice. 

For  one  thing,  it  was  too  late  to  go  and  warn 
Bill  and  the  other  punchers  at  the  Junction. 
And  even  if  it  were  not,  if  they  did  that  they 
would  have  to  share  with  the  ranch  men  the 
glory  of  the  pursuit  and  possible  capture  of  the 
bandits.  It  may  have  been  rash  of  the  boys,  but 
after  their  former  adventures  they  felt  capable 
of  taking  care  of  three  bandits  by  themselves  — 
especially  if  they  came  on  them  unawares,  which 
they  intended  to  do.  Had  Bill  been  there,  it 
isn't  likely  that  he  would  have  approved  of  their 
39 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

act,  but  with  him  away  the  boys  could  find 
plenty  of  reasons  for  doing  what  they  wanted 
to  do. 

Slim,  the  cook,  had  taken  no  interest  in  the 
affair.  He  was  wrapped  up  in  attending  to  his 
misery,  and  the  boys  left  him  in  a  bunk,  soaked 
with  liniment  — which  by  rights  was  intended 
for  a  horse — and  trying  to  sleep  and  forget  his 
troubles. 

As  the  horses  galloped  over  the  rolling  plains 
into  the  darkness  of  the  south,  the  boys  were 
thrilled  by  a  glow  of  excitement.  Each  had  his 
rifle  hanging  in  a  gun-boat  from  his  saddle.  The 
mystery  of  the  night;  the  fresh,  keen  stirring 
of  the  September  air;  the  spirit  of  adventure; 
the  easy,  swinging  motion  of  the  horses  —  all 
these  made  the  night's  hours  worth  living  for. 

For  a  while,  by  the  moon's  light,  Injun  had 
easily  been  able  to  follow  the  tracks  of  the 
horses  of  the  three  men,  and  as  they  continued 
toward  the  south,  Whitey  felt  sure  that  he  had 
guessed  correctly,  so  the  horses  were  urged  to  a 
swifter  pace.  Little  urging  was  necessary,  how- 
ever, as  Whitey's  "Monty"  pony  and  Injun's 
40 


SOLUTION 


pinto  were  fresh  and  seemed  as  eager  for  the 
chase  as  their  masters. 

Whitey's  plan  for  thwarting  the  bandits  was 
simple.  Before  reaching  the  Junction,  the  boys 
were  to  branch  off  toward  the  east  and  intercept 
the  train.  They  could  stand  on  the  track  and 
swing  a  lantern,  which  Injun  carried  for  the 
purpose.  When  the  train  came  to  a  standstill, 
they  could  get  aboard,  and  warn  the  train  crew. 
It  would  be  easy  to  recruit  an  armed  force  from 
among  the  passengers,  for  in  those  days,  in  the 
West,  there  were  few  men  who  went  unarmed. 
A.nd  when  the  bandits  attempted  their  holdup, 
they  would  meet  with  a  warm  reception. 

The  train  left  the  Junction  at  six,  and  should 
reach  the  water  tank  about  three-quarters  of 
an  hour  later,  though  it  often  was  late.  As  the 
boys  had  started  from  the  ranch  house  at  two. 
Whitey  figured  that  they  would  have  time 
enough,  though  none  to  waste. 

The  hours  could  not  be  counted,  but  perhaps 
three  had  passed,  and  through  the  scented,  vel- 
vety darkness  there  came  a  touch  of  gray  in  the 
east,  which  changed  to  pink,  then  to  opal,  as 
41 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

the  coming  sun  tinged  the  low-lying  clouds.  The 
animal  and  bird  life  began  to  stir,  preparing  to 
greet  the  beauty  of  the  dawn,  or  rather,  to  start 
on  their  affairs  of  the  day,  for  it  is  likely  that  the 
denizens  of  the  prairie  had  as  little  thought  for 
the  glory  of  the  sunrise  as  had  Injun  and  Whitey, 
whose  minds  were  firmly  fixed  on  train  robbers. 

When  the  light  was  full,  the  boys  drew  up,  and 
looked  off  toward  the  southwest.  Whitey  had 
been  depending  on  Injun's  never-failing  sense 
of  direction  to  carry  them  aright.  This  ability 
to  point  toward  any  point  of  the  compass,  in  the 
dark,  was  one  of  Injun's  gifts  —  though  he  didn't 
know  what  a  compass  was.  And  sure  enough, 
away  off  there  against  the  gray  of  the  clouds  was 
a  line  of  high,  tiny  crosses,  telegraph  poles,  near 
which  stretched  the  tracks  of  the  road. 

When  he  saw  them,  Whitey  could  not  resist  a 
whoop  of  joy.  "If  we  ride  straight  for  them,  how 
far  do  you  think  we'll  be  from  the  water  tank?" 
he  asked. 

"Mebbe  one  mile,  mebbe  two,"  replied  Injun, 
who  seldom  committed  himself  to  an  exact 
answer. 

42 


SOLUTION 


"That's  all  right,  come  on!"  cried  Whitey, 
and  they  galloped  straight  for  the  railroad. 

When  they  reached  the  tracks,  they  dis- 
mounted and  tied  their  ponies  to  neighboring 
telegraph  poles,  fearing  the  effect  the  noise  of 
the  train  would  have  on  the  spirited  animals. 
Then  the  boys  went  to  the  roadbed  to  await  the 
coming  of  the  train.  The  line  stretched  straight 
toward  the  west,  until  the  rails  seemed  to  join 
in  the  distance.  But  toward  the  east  was  a  curve 
as  the  road  approached  a  gully,  at  the  bottom  of 
which  was  a  creek.  It  was  from  this  creek  that 
the  water  was  drawn  for  the  tank. 

The  sunrise  had  seemed  to  promise  a  fair  day, 
but  the  promise  failed,  for  a  mist  was  forming 
over  the  plains.  The  train  was  not  in  sight,  and 
Whitey  kneeled,  and  placed  an  ear  to  the  track, 
knowing  that  he  could  detect  the  vibration 
caused  by  the  train  before  it  appeared. 

He  rose  and  nodded  his  head.  "I  hear  it," 
be  said.  For  once  Whitey  had  it  on  Injun.  He 
knew  about  railroads  and  Injun  didn't. 

"Light  the  lantern,"  said  Whitey.  Then  he 
began  to  laugh. 

.43 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

Injun  gazed  at  the  lantern,  then  at  Whitey. 
He  could  see  no  cause  for  laughter. 

"I  was  wise  when  I  suggested  that  lantern," 
said  Whitey.  "I  never  thought  that  it  would  be 
daylight,  and  its  light  wouldn't  show." 

Injun  almost  smiled. 

"What  we  ought  to  have  is  a  red  flag," 
Whitey  continued.  "That's  the  proper  thing  to 
signal  a  train  with  in  daytime." 

Injun  grunted,  and  Whitey  considered  the 
matter.  "I  have  it!  Your  shirt!  "he  cried.  "It's 
pink,  close  enough  to  red.  We'll  wave  that." 

Injun  grunted  again  and  looked  doubtful. 
"Me  get  'im  back?"  he  asked.  Injun  didn't 
care  any  less  for  that  shirt  than  he  did  for  his 
pinto  or  his  rifle  —  and  he  cared  more  for  it  than 
for  his  interest  in  the  gold  mine. 

"Sure,  you'll  get  it  back,"  said  Whitey,  and 
without  a  word  Injun  took  off  the  shirt  and 
handed  it  to  Whitey. 

The  boys  gazed  anxiously  toward  the  west. 

Whitey  thought  of  the  three  armed  men,  who 

now  probably  had  handkerchiefs  tied  over  their 

faces,  and  were  lying  in  wait  in  the  gully.     Then 

44 


SOLUTION 


of  the  oncoming  train,  with  its  unsuspecting 
passengers,  and  in  the  express  car  the  bags  of  ore 
that  were  said  to  assay  forty  thousand  dollars  a 
ton.  It  wouldn't  take  much  of  that  to  make  it 
worth  while  for  the  bandits  to  hold  up  the  ship- 
ment. 

Although  the  mist  was  getting  thicker,  it 
seemed  singular  that  the  train  did  not  appear. 
The  inaction  of  waiting  was  beginning  to  get  on 
Whitey 's  nerves  —  and  would  have  affected 
Injun's  if  he'd  had  any.  At  that,  they  had  not 
been  waiting  very  long,  though  they  did  not 
know  it. 

"It  must  be  getting  near.  I'll  listen  again," 
said  Whitey. 

Whitey  again  placed  his  ear  to  the  track,  then 
looked  up  blankly.  "It's  stopped,"  he  said. 
"Mebbe  there's  been  an  accident." 

Injun  knew  a  good  deal  about  plains  and 
woods,  and  animals  and  birds,  but  was  rather 
in  awe  of  trains.  He  gazed  at  Whitey's  face, 
which  wore  the  same  blank  look  as  his  own,  and 
ventured  no  opinion.  Two  sharp,  faint  sounds 
came  from  the  east  —  something  between  the 
45 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

crack  of  whips  and  the  popping  of  corks.  They 
were  followed  by  three  more. 

Injun  knew  about  these.  "Him  shoot,"  he 
said. 

The  startled  expression  on  Whitey's  face 
gradually  gave  way  to  one  of  understanding  and 
disgust.  "They  came  from  the  water  tank,"  he 
said.  "Don't  you  see?  We're  late,  and  what  I 
heard  was  the  train  going  the  other  way.  Then 
it  stopped,  and  they're  holding  it  up."  And 
Whitey  sat  down  on  one  of  the  rails,  thoroughly 
disgusted. 

For  a  while  nothing  was  said.  The  disappoint- 
ment was  too  great  for  words.  The  boys'  chance 
for  heroism  had  melted  in  the  fog,  which  the 
mist  had  now  become.  Injun  slowly  put  on  his 
shirt.  It  was  nothing  but  a  garment  now,  no 
heroic  rescue  signal. 

"I'll  bet  that  clock  at  the  ranch  was  wrong. 
It  always  is.  I  might  have  known  it,"  Whitey 
said  dejectedly.  The  thought  of  the  loss  of  the 
gold  was  forgotten  in  his  disappointment  at 
failure.  "  I  hope  no  one  was  hurt  —  I  mean  none 
of  the  trainmen  or  passengers,"  he  added.  "But 
46 


SOLUTION 


I  guess  not.  Those  bandits  had  the  drop  on 
them,  and  they  couldn't  have  put  up  much  of  a 
fight.  How  do  you  suppose  we  heard  those  shots  ? 
We  must  be  at  least  a  mile  from  the  tank. 

"Him  fog,"  Injun  answered.  "Hear  plain." 
And  it  is  true  that  fog  has  a  way  of  conveying 
sound. 

An  idea  brought  Whitey  to  his  feet  with  a 
leap.  "What  fools  we  are  to  be  sitting  here!" 
he  cried.  "We'll  follow  those  robbers.  The 
people  on  the  train  won't  do  that.  They've  no 
horses." 

Here,  indeed,  was  a  brilliant  thought.  The 
boys  could  track  the  bandits  to  their  hiding- 
place,  and  possibly  recover  the  ore.  At  least, 
they  could  return  and  report  where  the  men  had 
gone.  There  was  a  chance  to  distinguish  them- 
selves yet.  In  a  moment  they  were  mounted  and 
dashing  down  along  the  track,  toward  the  water 
tank. 

Presently  a  shrill  whistle  was  followed  by  the 

teint  rumbling  of  the  train  as  it  resumed  its 

way.  "See?  "yelled  Whitey.  "The  train's  just 

starting.  We  won't  be  very  late,  and  the  men's 

47 


INJUN  AND  WHTTKY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

tracks  will  be  plain.  Gee!  I  hope  it  doesn't 
rain." 

A  few  minutes'  ride  brought  the  boys  to  the 
deserted  water  tank.  They  dismounted  to  pick 
up  the  trail  of  the  robbers.  Near  the  tank,  where 
the  express  car  must  have  stood,  were  the  traces 
of  many  feet.  There  were  others  leading  from 
the  cars  in  the  rear.  Noting  these,  Whitey  said : 
"Mebbe  they  held  up  the  passengers,  too.  It's 
likely  that  they  would." 

But,  singularly  enough,  most  of  these  tracks  led 
on  toward  the  high  bridge  which  spanned  the 
gully.  The  boys  followed  them  curiously,  and 
when  they  reached  the  bridge  Injun  stopped. 

"Huh!  Go  back  again,  too,"  he  muttered. 
And  sure  enough  in  the  maze  of  footprints  many 
seemed  to  lead  back  toward  the  water  tank. 

"Why  do  you  s'pose  they  went  to  the  bridge? 
Prob'ly  to  see  if  it  was  safe;  that  the  robbers 
hadn't  damaged  it,"  Whitey  said. 

"Mebbe,"  said  Injun,  who  was  figuring  things 
out  in  his  own  way  and  seldom  spoke  until  he  had 
them  figured. 

From  the  scramble  of  footprints  near  th« 


SOLUTION 


tank,  Injun  picked  out  those  of  three  pairs  that 
diverged  from  the  mass.  Injun  traced  these  back 
toward  the  gully.  Two  of  the  tracks  were  made 
by  ordinary  boots,  the  other  by  high-heeled  cow- 
boy boots.  Whitey  left  this  part  of  the  chase 
entirely  to  Injun,  and  followed,  leading  the 
ponies. 

Presently  Monty  gave  voice  to  a  shrill  neigh, 
and  to  Whitey's  surprise  it  was  answered  from 
the  gully.  "Look  out!"  Whitey  called  softly  to 
Injun.  "They  haven't  gone.  There's  one  of 
their  horses." 

But  to  Whitey's  further  surprise  Injun  paid 
no  heed,  but  kept  calmly  on  his  way,  and  there 
was  nothing  for  Whitey  to  do  but  to  follow.  The 
gully,  or  little  canyon,  was  about  fifty  feet  deep, 
and  the  creek  that  ran  through  it  about  that 
many  feet  wide.  At  the  lowest  part,  near  the 
stream,  Injun  paused. 

"Where  are  their  horses?"  Whitey  whispered. 

"No  tied  here,"  Injun  answered,  which  was 
plainer  to  see  than  his  reason  for  knowing  that 
they  were  not. 

Whitey  was  now  greatly  puzzled  and,  he  had 
49 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

to  confess  to  himself,  not  a  little  alarmed.  But 
as  the  next  impatient  question  was  on  his  lips  he 
stoppftvi  short.  A  cool  breeze  had  sprung  up,  and 
was  watting  aside  the  cloud-like  fog.  A  rift  in 
the  fog  disclosed  a  portion  of  the  trestle  bridge. 
And,  hanging  from  it,  with  noosed  lariats  around 
their  necks,  were  three  limp,  ghastly  figures. 

In  horror,  Whitey  clutched  Injun's  arm,  and 
gasped,  "The  bandits!" 

Injun  looked  stolidly  at  the  horrible  sight,  as 
for  thousands  of  years  his  people  had  looked  on 
death.  "Uh,"  he  said  and  pointed  toward  the 
water  tank.  "Walk  marks  go  that  way.  No 
come  back." 


CHAPTER  V 
BUNK-HOUSE  TALK 

ABOUT  noon  that  day  two  sad  boys  rode  into 
the  Bar  O  Ranch,  leading  three  tired-looking 
broncos,  who  had  been  put  through  some  severe 
paces  since  early  morning.  One  of  the  boys  and 
all  the  horses  were  hungry,  but  the  other  boy 
had  little  desire  for  food.  Whitey  had  been  up 
against  some  rough  adventures  in  the  West. 
This  was  his  first  taste  of  the  tragedy  that  was 
frequent,  and  often  necessary  in  regulating  the 
affairs  of  those  days. 

And  while  Whitey  was  far  from  being  a  cow- 
ard, as  you  know,  the  sight  he  had  witnessed  had 
left  him  a  bit  shaken.  He  and  Injun  unsaddled 
the  ponies  and  horses,  put  them  in  the  corral,  and 
made  their  way  to  the  ranch  house.  Bill  Jordan 
and  John  Big  Moose  were  in  the  living-room. 
Bill  was  getting  the  big  Indian  to  help  him  with 
his  accounts,  which  always  were  a  puzzle  to  him. 
And  this  morning,  after  his  night  of  merriment 
at  the  Junction,  Bill  was  less  inclined  toward 
figures  than  usual. 

Si 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

"Well,  well,"  said  John  Big  Moose,  as  the 
boys  entered  the  room.  "You  two  seem  to  have 
extended  your  holiday  to  the  next  morning." 

"You  look  kinda  shaky,  Whitey,"  said  Bill. 
"You  been  makin'  a  night  of  it,  too?" 

Without  further  questioning  Whitey  sat  down 
and  told  the  story  of  the  adventure,  from  the 
boys'  awakening  to  their  finding  the  bodies  of 
the  three  men  hanging  from  the  railroad  bridge. 

"So  you  were  right  about  String  an'  Ham's 
bein'  crooks,"  Bill  said,  when  the  boy  had 
finished. 

"Yes,  but  even  so,  it  seems  terrible  for  them 
tcrdie  that  way,"  Whitey  replied. 

"The  express  folks  is  tired  o'  havin*  their  cars 
robbed,  an'  if  you'd  known  what  I  found  out  at 
the  Junction,  you  might  o'  saved  yourself  some 
trouble,"  said  Bill.  "They  was  a  shipment  of  a 
hundred  thousand  dollars  in  gold  in  that  there 
car,  an*  they  was  six  fellers  went  along  to  pertect 
it.  Not  detectives,  or  nothin',  just  fellers  that 
was  hired,  an'  was  dyin'  for  excitement.  I  reck'n 
some  o'  the  passengers  was  as  tired  o'  bein'  held 
up  as  those  fellers  was  pinin'  for  excitement,  an' 


BUNK-HOUSE  TALK 


when  String  an'  Ham  an'  Whiff  made  their  poor 
little  play,  they  musta  thought  they'd  struck  a 
hornet's  nest." 

"But  to  hang  them,"  Whitey  protested. 
"Why  didn't  they  shoot  them,  if  they  had  to 
kill  them?" 

"Well,  ye  see  hangin'  makes  it  look  worse 
for  the  next  fellers  what  thinks  o'  holdin'  up 
a  train,"  said  Bill.  "They'd  stole  three  o'  our 
hosses,  anyway,  an'  that's  a  hangin'  offense." 

But  Whitey  was  not  inclined  to  argue  about 
the  justice  or  injustice  of  the  lynching.  He  went 
away  with  Injun,  and  tried  to  eat.  And  he  tried, 
too,  to  forget  the  horror  of  the  scene  at  the 
bridge.  But  all  his  life  long  he  never  quite 
succeeded  in  doing  that. 

And  that  night,  in  the  bunk  house,  the  talk 
was  all  about  the  tragedy  of  the  morning.  Bill 
Jordan  and  four  of  the  cowboys  were  there,  to 
say  nothing  of  Slim,  the  cook.  Slim  had  another 
grievance,  for,  now  that  Ham  had  gone,  he  was 
again  forced  to  cook  for  the  men,  misery  or  no 
misery. 

S3 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

Whitey  loved  to  sit  in  the  long,  half-lighted 
room,  and  listen  to  the  talk  and  yarns  of  the  cow- 
boys, for,  "boys"  they  were  called,  whether  they 
were  eighteen  or  fifty,  and  in  many  ways  boys 
they  seemed  to  have  remained. 

They  had  threshed  over  the  lynching.  Whitey 
had  answered  a  thousand  questions  about  his 
experiences,  had  been  praised  and  blamed  with 
equal  frankness,  and  now  he  was  glad  to  see  that 
the  subject  was  to  be  dropped.  For  it  had  re- 
minded Buck  Higgins  of  lariats  and  their  merits, 
especially  for  hanging  men. 

"For  all-round  use  give  me  a  braided  linen," 
said  Buck. 

He  was  speaking  of  a  rope  that  is  made  as  its 
name  suggests,  and  is  very  strong.  If  you  have 
ever  been  in  the  West,  you  probably  have  seen 
a  mounted  cowboy  carrying  one  of  these  thin 
but  strong  ropes  coiled  at  the  horn  of  his  saddle, 
or  dragging  on  the  ground  behind  him  to  take 
the  kinks  out  of  it. 

/'Rawhide's  purty  good,"  suggested  Shorty 
Palmer. 

"Yes,  but  braided  linen  for  me,"  Buck  de- 
54 


BUNK-HOUSE  TALK 


clared.  "It's  got  any  other  kind  o'  rope  beat  a 
mile  for  strength." 

"Ever  get  stretched  with  one?"  Jim  Walker 
asked,  with  interest. 

"Nope,"  Buck  replied,  "but  I  seen  other 
fellers  that  did." 

"G'wan,  spill  your  yarn  about  it,"  said 
Shorty.  "We  don't  care  whether  it's  true  or 
not." 

Buck  was  inclined  to  be  offended.  "Say, 
you  all  never  heard  me  tell  nothin'  but  th' 
truth,"  he  snorted. 

"  Sure,  we  didn't,"  said  Jim.  "Leastways,  your 
yarns  is  told  about  places  so  far  away  that  we 
has  t'  take  'em  as  true,  not  knowin'  any  one  to 
call  on  for  t'  verify  'em." 

"Well,  if  they're  made  up,  you  c'n  make  up 
just  as  good  ones  yourselves,"  said  Buck,  and 
he  lapsed  into  silence. 

"Your  tale  interests  me  strangely,"  said  Bill. 
"Get  to  it.  You  started  fine." 

"He  didn't  start  at  all,"  Jim  said. 

"That's  what  Bill  means,"  explained  Shorty. 

"Aw,  let  him  tell  th'  story,"  said  Charlie 
55 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

Bassett.  "You  fellers  that  ain't  liars  yourselves 
is  all  jealous." 

Whitey  would  have  thought  that  the  tale  was 
to  go  untold  had  he  not  known  that  every  story 
of  Buck's  met  with  this  sort  of  reception,  and 
that  nothing  short  of  an  earthquake  could  keep 
him  from  talking. 

"Well,  just  to  show  you  fellers  you  can't 
queer  me,  I  will  tell  about  this  here  lynchin'," 
Buck  declared,  after  a  pause. 

"'Twas  back  in  Wyomin',  'bout  five  years 
ago,"  Buck  began,  "an'  I  was  workin'  for  the 
Lazy  I.  An'  rustlers  was  good  an'  plenty.  An' 
every  one  knows  that  there  ain't  on  easier  brand 
to  cover  up  than  a  lazy  I.  It  was  got  up  by  old 
man  Innes,  what  owned  th'  ranch,  an'  lived  in 
Boston,  an'  was  so  honest  an'  unsuspectin'  that 
he'd  V  trusted  Slim,  here,  with  a  lead  nickel." 

Fortunately  Slim  was  asleep,  and  did  not  hear 
this  reflection  on  his  character,  so  Buck  con- 
tinued : 

"Well,  our  stock  had  been  disappearin'  in 
bunches,  an'  purty  soon  them  bunches  begins 
t'  seem  more  like  herds,  an'  somethin'  had  t'  be 
56 


BUNK-HOUSE  TALK 


did,  an*  Squeak  Gordon,  th'  manager,  wa'n't 
no  man  for  th'  job." 

"Squeak!"  interrupted  Jim.  "That's  a  fine 
name  for  a  white  man." 

"  'Count  of  his  voice,"  Buck  explained  briefly, 
and  went  on.  "  So  it  was  up  t*  Lem  Fisher,  th' 
foreman,  an'  him  an*  'bout  seven  punchers,  in- 
cludin'  me,  got  th'  job.  'Course,  we  had  some 
idea  of  where  them  steers  was  goin',  an'  what 
brands  was  goin'  over  ours,  but  we  was  wantin' 
somethin'  pos'tive  before  we  c'd  get  busy. 

"I  started  talkin'  'bout  braided  linen  ropes, 
not  *bout  cattle  thieves,  so  they's  no  use  tellin' 
you  of  all  th'  figurin',  an'  trailin',  an'  hard 
ridin'  we  did.  You  know  old  Mr.  Shakespeare 
sez  that  levity's  th'  soul  o'  wit." 

"Brevity,"  corrected  Whitey. 

"What's  the  difference?"  demanded  Shorty. 
"Buck  don't  know  what  either  o'  them  words 
means." 

"Neither  do  you,"  retorted  Buck. 

"Anyway,  they  ain't  got  nothin'  t*  do  with 
braided  linen  ropes.  G'wan,"  commanded  Bill. 

"Well,"  resumed  Buck,  "one  noon,  in  th' 
57 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

foothills,  we  come  on  what  we  was  after,  an'  we 
did  some  stalkin'  t'  do  it.  We  ketched  three 
guys  red-handed.  They  was  artis tic-like  re- 
brandin'  some  of  our  calves  so's  Lazy  I'd  read 
Circle  W.  'Course,  they  wa'n't  but  one  thing 
t'  do  with  them  fellers,  an'  we  perceeds  to  do  it. 
But  unfortunate  enough  they  wa'n't  a  tree 
within  miles  of  that  there  spot.  It'd  seem  as 
though  nature  hadn't  figured  on  no  rus'lers 
conductin'  bizness  there,  an'  gettin'  caught. 

"We  felt  purty  bad  about  that,  an'  knowin' 
those  fellers  as  we  did  made  us  feel  worse.  They 
sure  didn't  deserve  shootin'.  Then  Lem  Fisher, 
who  always  was  handy  with  his  memory,  hap- 
pens t'  think  of  a  canyon  'bout  three  mile  away, 
with  a  bridge  over  it.  Sort  o'  like  that  place  at 
the  water  tank,  where  them  boys  was  strung  up 
this  mornin',  only  deeper,  an'  th'  stream  under 
it  swifter  an'  rockier. 

"Well,  we  conducts  our  three  friends  to  this 
here  canyon.  They  draw  lots  t'  see  who  goes 
first,  an'  a  feller  named  Red  Mike  wins  —  or 
loses,  rather  — as  he  gets  number  one.  The 
noose  of  one  of  these  common  manilas  is  at- 


BUNK-HOUSE  TALK 


tached  to  Mike's  neck,  th'  other  end  is  fastened 
to  th'  bridge,  an'  he's  dropped  over. 

"An'  would  you  b'lieve  it?  When  Mike  comes 
to  the  end  of  that  there  rope  with  a  jerk,  th'  rope 
breaks,  an'  Mike  goes  cavortin'  down  that  swift 
stream,  at  th'  rate  of  'bout  thirty  miles  an  hour, 
bumpin'  against  th'  rocks  an'  everythin'.  An'  he 
sure  must  'a'  disliked  that,  for  he  hated  water. 

"The  next  feller  on  th'  programmy  was  called 
'Sure  Thing'  Jones.  You  c'n  imagine  why  he 
was  called  that.  He  wouldn't  even  risk  bein' 
honest.  Well,  Sure  Thing  watches  perceedin's 
with  a  good  deal  of  interest,  an'  he  sees  Mike 
disappear  'round  a  bend  of  them  rapids,  his 
arms  an'  legs  wavin'  somewhat  wild. 

"Then  Sure  Thing  goes  up  to  Lem,  an'  he  sez, 
'Lem,  have  you  got  a  braided  linen  rope  in  the 
outfit?' 

."'Sure,' says  Lem.   'Why?' 

' '  It's  my  turn  next,  an'  I  wish  you'd  use  it  on 
me,'  says  Sure  Thing.  'Ye  see  what  happened 
t'  Mike,  an'  I  don't  want  t'  take  no  chances. 
You  know  I  can't  swim. ' " 

"Just  the  same,"  said  Bill  Jordan,  determined 
59 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

to  have  the  last  word,  "with  all  your  advertisin' 
for  braided  linen  ropes,  I'll  take  old  maguey  for 
mine,  swimmin'  or  no  swimmin'." 

In  the  midst  of  the  laugh  which  had  followed 
Buck's  grim  tale,  Sitting  Bull,  who  had  been 
lying  near  Whitey,  rose  to  a  sitting  posture,  his 
cave-like  mouth  open  wide  and  raised  at  the 
corners,  his  eyes  twinkling. 

"See  Bull!"  Bill  Jordan  cried  delightedly. 
"He's  laughin'  at  Buck's  story  yet.  He's  sure 
got  a  sense  o'  humor,  that  dog.  He's  just  about 
human." 

Bull's  expression  raised  another  laugh.  All  the 
men  liked  him,  but  Bill  was  his  especial  admirer, 
and  loved  to  dwell  on  Bull's  wonderful  intel- 
ligence and  tell  stories  about  it. 

"Me  for  bed,"  said  Jim  Walker.  "After  that 
jamboree  las'  night  I  feel  's  though  I  c'd  sleep 
a  month." 

"Wait  a  minute  till  I  tell  you  *bout  me  havin' 
Bull  down  t'  th'  Junction  las'  week,  an'  him 
chasin'  th'  fox,"  Bill  said. 

"Tell  nothin',"  Jim  answered.  "Me  for  th1 
hay." 

60 


BUNK-HOUSE  TALK 


"Aw,  g'wan,"  protested  Bill.  "Twcn't  take 
a  minute,  an*  you  got  all  'ternity  t'  sleep  in,  as 
the  poet  says." 

"An'  I  c'n  use  it,"  Jim  yawned;  "but  cut 
loose,  an'  make  it  short." 

"Well,"  Bill  began,  "las'  week  Thursd'y  I  was 
goin'  down  t'  th'  Junction  for  feed,  an'  I  takes 
Bull  along.  You  know  how  he  likes  t'  ride  in  a 
wagon?  'S  almost  human.  Why,  that  there 
animal  — " 

"Here,  cut  out  them  side  comments,"  com- 
manded Jim.  "We  know  how  smart  that  dog  is, 
without  your  tellin'  us  any  further.  Get  down 
t' bed  rock!" 

"Well,"  Bill  continued,  "when  we  gets  t'  th' 
store,  an'  Al  Strong's  nigger's  loadin'  th'  feed 
in  th'  wagon,  I  allows  t'  take  Bull  for  a  little 
stroll  'round,  so's  he  c'n  stretch  his  legs.  So  I 
ties  a  halter  t'  his  collar  an'  starts  out.  I  isn't 
exactly  leadin'  Bull,  he's  sort  o'  leadin'  me,  for 
you  all  know  how  strong  he  is.  But  we  sure 
needs  th'  halter  t'  make  Bull  keep  th'  peace. 
He's  had  more  fights  at  that  there  Junction! 
Say,  he's  the  fightenist  dog"  —  a  warning  look 
61 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

from  Jim  kept  Bill  to  the  thread  of  his  story. 

"We  passes  th'  homes  of  all  Bull's  live  en- 
emies, an*  th'  graves  of  his  dead  ones,  an'  gets 
to  a  rock,  where  we  c'n  sit  an'  study  natur'  a 
bit,  before  we  turns  back.  An'  thinkin'  it's 
safe  t'  do  so,  I  lets  go  o'  Bull's  halter.  An' 
while  I'm  studyin'  an'  takin'  a  nip  from  a  flask 
I  happens  t'  have  in  my  jeans,  I  forgets  Bull 
for  a  minit,  an'  when  I  looks  up,  he's  plumb 
absent. 

"I  ain't  worried  none,  till  I  happens  t'  think 
we  was  only  'bout  a  quarter  mile  from  that  Eng- 
lishman, Barclay's,  place,  what  has  that  pack 
o'  wolf-hounds  that  he  hunts  with.  Fox-huntin' 
he  calls  it,  though  what  he  mostly  chases  is 
coyotes.  Ain't  it  funny  how  when  an  English- 
man comes  t'  this  country  he  brings  his  habits 
with  him,  or  twists  ours  aroun'  t'  fit  his'n?" 

"Say,"  demanded  Jim.  "Is  this  a  yarn  'bout 
a  bulldog  or  a  lecture  on  them  foreign  habits? 
'Cause  if  it's  that  last,  I  — " 

"Well,  anyway,"  Bill  interrupted  hastily, 
"I  looks  down  th'  road,  an'  Bull's  beatin'  it  hot 
foot  for  that  Barclay's  place,  an'  I  c'n  see  what 
62 


BUNK-HOUSE  TALK 


happens  if  he  meets  up  with  them  hounds.  So  I 
follers,  swift's  I  can,  spillin'  some  language  to 
Bull — prayers,  an'  warnings  an*  such.  But  before 
I  gets  there,  I  sees  that  pack  o'  hounds  swarm 
over  th'  fence  into  th'  road,  an'  purty  soon,  there 
is  Bull,  right  in  their  midst,  as  th'  feller  says. 

"For  th'  rest  of  th'  way  I  does  nothin'  but 
pray,  an'  see  visions  of  th'  biggest  dog  fight  that 
ever  hit  Montana,  but  I  keeps  movin'  rapid,  an* 
when  I  gets  on  th'  spot,  there's  Bull,  right  in  th' 
middle  of  th'  pack.  Now  all  th'  tails  is  waggin', 
an'  that  looks  purty  good,  till  I  comes  t*  think 
that  Bull  always  wags  his  tail  before  he  goes 
into  battle,  'cause  he  loves  to  fight  so.  An'  all 
them  hounds  is  sniffin'  'round,  right  pert,  an* 
Bull  is  purty  cocky,  an'  when  I  gets  close  enough, 
I  hears  Bull  say: 

'"Hello,  d'ye  want  t'  fight?' 

"'Fight,  no,'  says  one  of  th'  hounds.  'We're 
goin'  to  chase  a  fox.  D'ye  want  t'  go?' 

"'Sure,' says  Bull. 

"An'  with  that  th'  whole  pack  o'  Jem  leaps 
over  a  fence,  an'  beats  it  off  toward  th'  hills. 

"Well,  Bull  don't  even  hesitate.  He  leaps  at 
63 


LNJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

that  there  rail  fence  an'  lands  against  it  with  his 
head,  plunk  —  an*  caroms  back  into  th'  road. 
He  leaps  again,  an*  comes  back  th'  same  way, 
but  at  th'  third  jump  he  goes  through  a  wider 
place  in  th'  rails,  an*  lands  on  th'  other  side  o'  the 
fence,  on  that  there  same  head.  Then  he  scram- 
bles to  his  feet,  an*  starts  off  after  them  hounds. 

"Now,  you  all  know  that  a  bulldog  ain't 
built  for  speed,  he's  built  for  war.  In  th'  first 
place,  his  fore  legs  is  so  far  apart  they's  almost 
strangers,  an'  his  hind  legs  is  too  short,  an'  th' 
rest  of  him's  too  heavy  for  all  of  'em.  But  Bull 
keeps  goin',  industr'ous.  An'  he  goes  so  fast 
that  'bout  every  thirty  yards  he  stumbles,  an* 
falls  on  his  face,  an'  his  head  plows  up  large 
chunks  of  Montana  soil. 

"By  this  time  them  wolf-fox-hounds  has  flown 
into  them  hills,  they  touchin'  th'  ground  'bout 
every  hunderd  feet.  An'  Bull  ain't  one  to  let  no 
hounds  see  him  quit,  an'  he  plows  along,  till  at 
last  he  gets  t'  them  hills  an'  is  lost  t'  sight  but 
t'  mem'ry  dear.  Well,  I  goes  back  t'  that  rock, 
an'  sits  down,  sad-like,  thinkin'  mebbe  I  never 
will  see  Bull  again. 

6* 


BUNK-HOUSE  TALK 


"An*  pVaps  it's  an  hour  goes  by,  when  I 
hears  somethin'  that  sounds  like  a  engine  puffin* 
strong  on  a  upgrade,  an*  up  over  one  of  them 
hummocks  comes  Bull,  draggin*  himself  along 
like  he  has  fiatirons  tied  t'  his  feet.  An*  he's 
all  decorated  with  real  estate,  an'  burrs,  an' 
evrerythin'  loose  what  would  stick  to  him.  An* 
when  he  gets  to  where  I  sits,  he  flops  down  flat  on 
his  back.  He  sure  is  exhausted;  even  his  paws  is 
limp.  But  one  of  his  eyes  seems  t'  hold  a  spark 
o'  life,  an*  he  fixes  that  on  me.  An'  he  asks, 
weak-like: 

'"Say,  Bill,  what  in  tarnation  is  a  fox?'" 
The  company  looked  at  Bill  fixedly;  not  re- 
proachfully, but  fixedly.  Then  slowly  the  men 
began  to  take  off  their  clothes,  with  the  idea  of 
turning  in.  And  Bill  Jordan  and  Whitey  started 
for  the  ranch  house,  for  the  same  purpose. 


CHAPTER  VI 

BOOTS 

THE  green  of  the  prairie  had  given  way  to  brown, 
and  the  brown  to  white,  which  rolled  off  to  the 
sky-line  and  the  hills  in  dazzling  billows,  in  the 
cold  light  of  the  sun.  For  winter  had  the  Bar  O 
in  its  grip.  And  though  winter  was  no  gentle 
thing  in  Montana,  there  was  a  tingle  in  the  cold, 
sharp  air  that  made  a  boy  want  to  whoop  and 
to  get  on  his  snowshoes  and  go  after  rabbits, 
which  wise  old  Nature  had  also  turned  white, 
so  that  they  could  blend  in  with  the  color  of 
the  landscape  and  the  better  avoid  their  ene- 
mies. Not  that  Injun  ever  whooped;  he  never 
did.  His  people  always  had  reserved  that  form 
of  expression  for  warlike  purposes. 

There  were  many  things  the  boys  could  do  in 
winter,  but  these  were  forgotten  for  a  time  by 
Whitey,  for  a  great  event  was  about  to  take 
place.  His  father  was  to  return  to  the  ranch  from 
New  York,  stopping  over  at  St.  Paul,  on  his  way, 
to  buy  supplies.  And  as  the  snow  was  not  too 
66 


BOOTS 


deep  for  sleighing,  Whitey  drove  down  to  the 
Junction,  with  Bill  Jordan,  to  meet  Mr.  Sher- 
wood. And  outside  Whitey  was  all  wrapped  up 
in  a  buffalo  coat,  and  inside  he  was  so  warm  with 
excitement  that  the  coat  seemed  hardly  neces- 
sary. 

Now,  of  course,  Whitey  was  awfully  glad  to  see 
his  father,  and  to  hear  the  news  about  his 
mother  and  sisters,  and  about  Tom  Johnson, 
and  George  and  Bobby  Smith,  and  others  of  his 
boy  friends.  But  after  he  had  heard  all  this 
there  was  another  thing  that  naturally  came  to 
his  mind.  Mr.  Sherwood  would  not  come  back 
to  the  ranch  without  bringing  Whitey  some 
sort  of  present,  and  his  father  was  singularly 
silent  about  what  this  was.  In  fact,  he  had  not 
said  anything  about  it  at  all.  And  it  was  after 
supper,  and  Mr.  Sherwood  was  unpacking  his 
trunk,  when  he  rather  carelessly  said,  "Oh 
here's  something  I  brought  for  you,"  and  gave 
Whitey  a  parcel. 

Whitey  thanked  his  father,  and  undid  the 
parcel,  and  he  dropped  the  things  that  were  in 
it,  and  his  eyes  popped  out,  and  for  a  moment 

' 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

he  could  hardly  breathe,  he  was  so  excited,  for 
they  were  BOOTS! 

And  when  Whitey  recovered  a  bit  he  rushed 
over  and  actually  hugged  his  father. 

Perhaps  you  would  like  to  know  why  a  pair 
of  boots  would  cause  all  this  feeling  in  Whitey. 
For  one  thing,  it  was  because  he  never  had 
owned  any.  In  New  York  all  the  boys  wore 
shoes,  and  when  Whitey  had  come  to  the  ranch 
he  had  worn  them,  too,  until  the  soles  of  his 
feet  had  become  hard  enough,  like  Injun's,  for 
him  to  go  barefoot,  which  he  delighted  in  doing. 

But  in  the  late  fall,  and  the  spring,  when  it  was 
colder,  he  again  followed  Injun's  lead,  and  wore 
moccasins.  Buckskin  moccasins,  with  little 
bead  decorations.  In  the  cold  of  winter,  when 
the  snow  was  deep,  and  when  the  big  thaws 
came,  Whitey  wore  heavy,  moccasin-like  muck- 
lucks,  made  of  buckskin,  which  laced  high, 
nearly  to  his  knees,  and  over  the  tops  of  which 
hung  the  tops  of  heavy,  woolen  socks. 

These  comprised  Injun  and  Whitey's  foot- 
wear for  the  seasons.  But  there  was  one  thing 
that  Whitey  envied  the  cowboys  on  the  ranch  — 
68 


BOOTS 


their  boots.  For  you  must  know  that  there  are 
two  things  on  which  a  puncher  spends  his  money 
extravagantly  —  his  boots  and  his  saddle.  Un- 
less he  happens  to  be  a  Mexican  —  then  he 
spends  it  on  his  hat,  too. 

So  the  dream  of  Whitey's  life,  the  pinnacle  of 
his  ambition,  the  idea  of  the  tip-top  of  ecstatic 
happiness  that  lived  in  his  brain  was  —  BOOTS. 
And  now  he  had^them.  And  they  were  beauties; 
with  tops  of  soft  leather  with  fancy  stitching, 
inlaid  with  white  enameled  leather,  and  high 
heels,  that  a  fellow  could  dig  into  the  ground 
when  he  was  roping  a  horse.  In  short,  they 
were  regular  boots,  that  any  one  might  be 
proud  of.  And  they  had  been  made  to  order  for 
Whitey! 

It  would  be  useless  to  attempt  a  description 
of  how  Whitey  felt  about  those  boots.  Shake- 
speare would  have  to  fcome  back  to  life  to  do 
that,  and  I  doubt  if  he  could  have  done  it.  I  know 
that  Bacon  could  not.  Whitey's  first  impulse 
was  to  put  the  boots  on,  and  go  out  and  show 
them  to  all  the  men  in  the  bunk  house.  His  next 
impulse  was  to  save  the  surprise  till  morning, 

69 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

when  the  decorations  on  the  boots  would  show 
better. 

But  he  put  them  on.  And  after  his  father  had 
finished  unpacking,  Whitey  sat  in  the  living- 
room  with  him,  and  it  is  to  be  feared  that  he 
listened  rather  absent-mindedly  to  his  father's 
talk.  He  would  stretch  out  his  legs  and  admire 
the  boots.  Then  he  would  twist  his  feet  about 
so  that  he  could  get  a  good  view  of  the  high 
heels.  Then  he  would  double  up  his  knees,  and 
fairly  hug  the  boots.  And  if  Mr.  Sherwood 
noticed  all  this  he  gave  no  sign.  Probably  he 
remembered  the  day  he  had  his  first  pair  of 
boots.  And  that  night,  though  Whitey  did  not 
sleep  in  the  boots,  he  took  them  to  bed  with 
him. 

In  the  morning  Whitey  restrained  his  im- 
patience until  breakfast-time,  then  strolled  down 
to  the  bunk  house,  wearing  the  boots.  Several 
of  the  men  were  there,  just  finishing  the 
meal,  and  rolling  their  after-breakfast  cigarettes. 
Whitey  sat  down,  sort  of  offhand  and  careless- 
like,  and  to  his  pained  surprise,  no  one  noticed 
the  boots.  Then  he  crossed  his  legs  and  leaned 
70 


BOOTS 


back,  with  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  head  — 
and  Buck  Higgins  noticed  them. 

And  Whitey  certainly  was  gratified,  for  they 
attracted  a  great  deal  of  admiration  and  praise, 
and  there  was  much  discussion  about  them,  and 
feeling  of  the  leather,  and  estimating  how  much 
they  cost.  After  a  while  Injun  arrived.  Now, 
Injun  did  not  care  about  boots,  though  he 
might  have  liked  a  pair  had  they  been  made  of 
pink  leather.  But  even  Injun  was  moved  to 
admiration  by  these  boots. 

Then  Whitey  strutted  around  the  ranch 
buildings  and  corrals  for  a  while,  and  the  milch 
cows,  and  the  horses  and  the  pigs — all  the  stock, 
in  fact  —  had  a  good  look  at  the  boots.  And  Sit- 
ting Bull  admired  them  so  much  that  he  wanted 
to  lick  them,  but  of  course  that  wouldn't  do. 

Bill  Jordan  had  an  errand  at  the  Junction 
and  he  drove  Whitey  and  Injun  over  with  him. 
Al  Strong's  store  was  also  the  postoffice,  and 
every  man,  woman,  and  child  that  happened 
to  be  there  at  mail-time  had  a  fine  view  of 
Whitey's  boots.  That  night,  when  Whitey  went 
to  bed,  he  was  quite  tired  from  exhibiting  them. 
71 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

The  next  day  Whitey  figured  that  about  every 
human  being  and  animal  in  the  neighborhood 
had  seen  his  boots.  Then  he  happened  to  think 
of  the  Indians  fishing  on  the  river.  I  say  on  the 
river,  for  it  was  frozen  over,  with  its  first  solid 
covering  of  ice.  Now,  the  Indians  never  fish  in 
the  summer-time.  Few  white  people  know 
about  it,  but  the  Indians  don't  like  to  fish.  They 
only  eat  fish  when  they  can't  hunt  much.  When 
the  Indian  goes  into  camp  for  the  winter,  he  has 
his  provisions  all  stacked  to  carry  him  through, 
but  to  be  sure  that  these  provisions  will  hold  out, 
he  will  eat  just  a  little  fish. 

And  this  is  the  Indian's  mode  of  fishing.  He 
puts  up  a  tepee  right  out  on  the  ice,  and  puts  a 
blanket  inside  the  tepee.  Then  he  cuts  a  hole  in 
the  ice,  and  lies  down  on  the  blanket  and  indus- 
triously watches  the  hole.  You  know  that  fish 
are  very  inquisitive,  and  when  Mr.  Inquiring 
Fish  comes  along  to  see  about  that  hole,  Mr. 
Indian  spears  him  just  back  of  the  head,  pulls 
him  out,  and  has  fried  fish  for  supper. 

When  Whitey  beat  it  down  to  the  river,  tc 
show  his  boots  to  a  new  audience,  he  was  followed 
72 


BOOTS 


by  Injun  and  Sitting  Bull.  Trouble  was  fol- 
lowing, too, — Harrowing  Trouble,  —  but  Whitey 
didn't  know  it.  On  the  frozen  river  were  about 
a  dozen  tepees,  standing  up  something  like  big 
stacks  of  cornstalks  on  a  field  of  frosted  glass. 
So  there  probably  were  about  a  dozen  Indians, 
lying  on  their  stomachs,  watchmg  as  many  holes 
in  the  ice. 

There  was  not  one  of  those  Indians  that 
Whitey  thought  should  miss  seeing  those  boots. 
In  the  first  tepee  his  reception  was  very  gratify- 
ing. Little  Eagle  was  the  owner's  name,  and  he 
didn't  care  much  about  boots,  but  the  decora- 
tions on  these  pleased  his  taste  for  the  gaudy, 
and  his  eyes  sparkled  as  he  grunted  his  praise. 

So  it  went  around  the  little  fishing  village, 
until  Whitey  entered  about  the  eighth  tepee, 
and  that  was  where  Trouble  was  right  next  to 
him.  Inside  the  tent  it  was  dark.  And  Whitey 
didn't  fall  into  the  hole  in  the  ice  —  he  walked 
into  it.  His  life  was  not  in  danger,  because  he 
didn't  mind  a  little  cold  water,  and  the  Indian 
lying  there  on  his  stomach,  with  his  eyes  accus- 
tomed to  the  darkness,  could  see,  and  he  quickly 
73 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

grabbed  Whitey  by  the  shoulders  and  yanked 
him  out  —  but,  oh !  the  boots ! 

They  were  crinkled  and  soaked  and  water- 
logged and  shrunken.  And  it  took  six  Indians 
to  get  them  off,  two  pulling  on  each  boot,  and  two 
to  hold  Whitey.  And  when  they  were  off,  Whi- 
tey borrowed  a  pair  of  moccasins,  and  raced  to 
the  ranch  house,  with  Injun  and  Sitting  Bull. 

Now,  in  the  living-room  of  the  Bar  O  ranch 
house  in  winter  —  and  in  every  other  ranch 
house  in  that  part  of  the  country  —  was  a  big 
stove  that  held  a  stick  of  cordwood  three  feet 
long.  In  fact,  it  held  four  or  five  such  sticks  of 
cordwood,  which,  you  can  imagine,  made  a  good 
fire.  And  straight  to  this  fire  went  Whitey.  He 
was  wet,  and  he  was  ashamed.  And  he  put  the 
boots  under  the  stove  to  dry,  without  anybody's 
seeing  him.  And  he  didn't  say  anything  to 
his  father  about  it,  because  he  was  ashamed. 
And  he  went  to  bed  without  saying  anything 
about  it. 

In  the  morning  Whitey  was  up  with  the  sun, 
and  went  to  get  his  boots.  And,  oh,  ye  gods! 
Why  didn't  the  heavens  fall?  What  once  was 
74 


BOOTS 


a  pair  of  proud  boots,  looked  like  two  little, 
brown  wrinkled  apples!  It  was  a  tragedy  in 
six  acts.  It  was  worse  than  that,  for  one  can 
find  words  for  a  tragedy.  But  why  dwell  on  it? 

And  while  Whitey  was  getting  the  worst  of  the 
first,  horrible  shock,  his  father  came  into  the 
living-room,  and  not  knowing  why,  Whitey  ran, 
and  his  father,  not  knowing  why,  I  suspect,  ran 
after  him.  Whitey  was  fleet  of  foot,  and  much 
smaller  than  his  father,  so  he  could  make  the 
stairs  better.  And  he  ran  up  and  down  and 
around,  now  slamming  this  door,  and  now 
slamming  that  one. 

And  Whitey' s  father  began  to  get  angry.  But 
Whitey  had  become  a  frontier  boy,  and  accus- 
tomed to  standing  his  ground  in  the  face  of  a 
superior  enemy — at  least,  when  he  couldn't 
run  any  farther.  When  he  was  finally  run  down, 
he  backed  into  a  corner,  lifted  his  fists  to  the 
proper  angle,  and,  in  this  boyish  fighting  atti- 
tude, said  to  his  big,  strong,  wonderful  dad, 
"Don't  you  hit  me!" 

If  it  hadn't  been  for  his  father's  strong  sense 
of  humor,  Whitey  probably  would  have  been 
75 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

in  for  a  sound  trimming.  As  it  was,  his  father 
paused  and  looked  at  him  sternly;  then  his 
piercing  blue  eyes  began  to  soften,  and  signs  of 
his  sense  of  humor  began  to  appear  about  his 
mouth.  And  he  turned  on  his  heel,  and  walked 
away,  leaving  Whitey  to  his  grief. 


CHAPTER  VII 
EDUCATION  AND  OTHER  THINGS 

WINTER  dragged  coldly  by,  saddened  by  the 
lessons  of  John  Big  Moose,  and  brightened  by 
an  occasional  hunting  trip  the  boys  took  to  the 
mountains.  Sitting  Bull  did  not  seem  to  justify 
Whitey's  first  idea  of  him ;  that  he  was  a  magnet 
for  excitement.  Apparently  Bull  was  satisfied 
to  lie  by  the  big  living-room  stove  and  sleep, 
except  when  the  boys  were  going  for  game.  Then 
he  was  eager  to  go. 

"That  there  dog  is  like  some  folks,"  declared 
Bill  Jordan.  "He's  powerful  smart,  but  he's 
got  a  lot  o'  false  idees  'bout  himself.  He  ain't 
built  for  huntin'  no  more'n  he  is  for  runnin'. 
Why  don't  you  take  him  along  onc't,  an'  sho\i 
him  his  mistake?" 

So  one  day  when  the  snow  was  light,  and 
snow-shoes  were  not  needed,  Injun  and  Whitey 
took  Bull  to  the  hills  with  them,  and  he  was  mad 
with  delight.  But  all  he  did  was  to  rush  excitedly 
about  and  frighten  the  game,  except  once,  when 
77 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

Whitey  had  a  good  but  hard  shot  at  a  rabbit. 
Then  Bull  got  between  Whitey's  legs  and  tripped 
him  up,  so  that  Whitey  missed  the  shot. 

The  boys  came  back  without  any  game,  and 
apparently  without  convincing  Bull  that  he  was 
no  hunter,  for  the  next  time  they  started  he  was 
just  as  eager  to  go  as  before. 

"You  thought  he'd  be  cured  of  wanting  to 
hunt,  but  he  isn't,"  Whitey  said  reproachfully  to 
Bill  Jordan.  "I  don't  think  he's  so  smart,  after 
all." 

."Smart!"  exclaimed  Bill.  "Why,  he's  just 
nachally  too  clever  t'  give  up.  He'd  keep  on 
tryin'  till  he  did  b'come  a  great  hunter." 

This  was  the  usual  satisfaction  Whitey  got 
out  of  Bill's  arguments,  but  Bull  went  hunting 
no  more. 

One  of  the  boys'  other  diversions  had  to  do 
with  a  Chinaman  named  Wong  Lee.  Wong  had 
succeeded  the  colored  man,  Slim,  as  cook  at  the 
Bar  O.  Slim  had  thought  the  Montana  winter 
too  severe  for  his  miseries,  and  had  gone  South 
for  good,  and  as  Wong  was  a  much  better  cook, 
no  one  felt  sorry.  Wong  was  placid,  industrious, 

78 


EDUCATION  AND  OTHER  THINGS 

and  very  amiable,  but  beneath  all  this  he  must 
have  had  nerves,  as  I  suppose  Chinamen  have, 
in  common  with  other  people. 

He  slept  in  a  shack  near  the  bunk  house,  and 
carried  his  industry  so  far  that  at  night  he  would 
do  all  the  washing  that  was  to  be  done  at  the 
ranch  house,  for  which  he  was  paid  extra.  And 
here  was  the  boys'  chance.  Injun  was  like  most 
other  boys  when  it  came  to  mischief,  and 
Whitey  taught  him  the  ancient  game  of  tick- 
tack.  In  case  you  don't  know  it,  I'll  tell  you  how 
it's  done. 

To  make  a  tick-tack  get  a  long  string,  the 
longer  the  better;  meaning  the  longer  the  safer. 
Then  get  a  small  fish-hook,  and  tie  it  to  the  end 
of  your  string,  and  tie  a  little  stone  about  eight 
inches  below  your  fish-hook.  Select  a  dark  night 
and  the  window  of  the  person  whose  nerves  you 
wish  to  disturb.  Then  sneak  up,  and  fasten  the 
fish-hook  to  one  of  the  cross  pieces  of  the  window. 
Then  go  to  the  end  of  your  line,  and  hide  behind 
a  wagon  or  a  post.  Pull  your  string,  and  "tick- 
tack"  goes  the  stone  on  the  window. 

Wong  Lee  took  it  all  in  good  part.  He  had 
79 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

been  a  boy  once,  himself,  away  off  in  China. 
And  though  Wong  Lee  never  had  played  tick- 
tack,  he  probably  had  played  other,  Chinese  boy 
games  that  Injun  and  Whitey  would  have  been 
glad  to  know  about,  and  Wong  Lee  was  of  such 
a  disposition  that  he  probably  would  have  told 
them  all  about  it,  had  he  and  the  boys  come  to 
an  understanding  in  the  matter. 

Instead  of  that,  when  that  irritating  little 
sound  got  on  his  Chinese  nerves,  Wong  Lee 
would  chase  out  in  answer  to  the  tick-tack, 
with  his  pigtail  standing  straight  out  in  the 
wind,  and  pursue  the  boys  from  cover  to  cover. 
But  he  was  game,  and  though  he  must  have 
known  who  his  tormentors  were,  he  never  re- 
ported them  to  Mr.  Sherwood  or  to  Bill  Jordan. 

And  so,  with  one  thing  and  another,  the  win- 
ter finally  merged  into  spring,  the  soft  rains 
melting  away  the  snow,  and  giving  the  brown 
earth  its  chance  to  turn  to  tender  green.  And 
the  swollen  river  was  dotted  with  cakes  of  ice, 
among  which  the  wild  ducks  dropped  on  their 
way  South  where,  it  was  to  be  hoped,  Slim  had 
recovered  from  his  miseries.  And,  as  everybody 
80 


EDUCATION  AND  OTHER  THINGS 

knows,  spring  is  a  time  that  stirs  boys  and  young 
men  to  unrest. 

Perhaps  you  have  noticed  that  when  a  fellow 
is  just  swelling  up  with  a  desire  to  do  something 
big  in  the  world,  some  trifling  little  thing  comes 
along  and  knocks  his  ambition  to  splinters. 
When  he  is  burning  to  kill  a  bear,  he  has  to  go  on 
an  errand  for  his  mother  —  or  something  like 
that.  Well,  here  was  Whitey,  with  this  spring 
feeling  inciting  him  to  great  deeds,  instead  of 
making  him  lazy,  as  it  does  some  people,  and  he 
went  to  the  bunk  house,  followed  by  Sitting 
Bull.  And  there  was  Bill  Jordan,  with  a  letter 
in  his  hand,  and  something  on  his  mind  that  he 
was  dying  to  tell,  but  would  rather  die  than  not 
take  his  time  about  telling. 

So  Bill  proceeded  to  peddle  out  his  news,  a  bit 
at  a  time.  "  John  Big  Moose's  goin'  t'  New  York," 
was  the  first  thing  Bill  said. 

"Hooray!"  Whitey  cried. 

"That's  a  fine  way  t'  take  th'  news  that 
you're  goin'  t'  lose  your  dear  teacher,"  Bill  said 
reproachfully. 

"Oh,  of  course  I'm  sorry  that  John  is  going 
81 


INJUN  AND  WHTTEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

away,  but  just  think,  there'll  be  no  more  lessons," 
Whitey  answered. 

"0*  course,"  Bill  said,  and  he  looked  at  the 
boy  in  a  very  peculiar  way. 

But  Whitey  was  too  excited  to  notice  the  look. 
"What's  John  going  for?"  he  asked. 

"Your  father's  sent  for  him,"  answered  Bill. 
Mr.  Sherwood's  business  had  again  taken  him 
to  the  big  city.  "An'  now  that  this  here  gold 
mine's  turnin'  out  so  well,"  Bill  continued,  "an* 
John  has  some  money,  your  father  don't  think 
it's  fair  t*  keep  him  here  teachin'  a  couple  o* 
kids,  when  there's  a  big  openin*  for  John  right 
there  in  New  York.  An'  it  seems  your  father's 
got  John  some  job  as  a  chemist,  though  goin' 
into  a  drug  store  don't  seem  no  big  openin' t' 
me,"  Bill  added  thoughtfully. 

"John  isn't  going  to  be  a  drug  clerk,"  Whitey 
said,  disgusted  at  Bill's  ignorance.  Whitey  knew 
something  of  the  big  Indian's  ambitions,  having 
heard  him  discuss  them  with  Mr.  Sherwood- 
"Father  probably  has  heard  of  an  opening  in 
some  college,  where  John  can  become  anjuistruc- 
tor  in  chemistry." 

82 


EDUCATION  AND  OTHER  THINGS 

Bill  did  n't  know  what  that  meant,  either,  but, 
not  wishing  to  display  his  ignorance  further,  he 
said  hastily,  "Oh,  that's  diff'runt." 

"When's  John  going?"  demanded  Whitey. 

"Right  off.  Gonna  drive  him  t'  th'  Junction 
to-day." 

"Then  no  more  lessons!"  cried  Whitey. 
"We'll  be  off  for  a  hunting  trip.  I  hear  Moose 
Lake  is  just  loaded  with  wild  geese.  Where's 
Injun?  I  must  run  and  tell  him." 

"Wait  a  minit,"  cautioned  Bill.  "There's 
somethin'  more.  But  first  I  must  tell  you  how 
s'prised  an'  pained  you  make  me  by  showin'  this 
here  dislike  for  learnin'." 

"Surprised  nothing,"  retorted  Whitey.  "Did 
you  like  it  when  you  were  a  kid  ? " 

"Nope,"  Bill  confessed  promptly.  "But  I'm 
dern  sorry  I  didn't,  now.  You  ain't  got  no  idea 
what  a  handicap  a  feller's  under  what  ain't  got 
no  eadication." 

Whitey  thought  that  what  Bill  had  just  said 
had  given  him  a  pretty  good  idea  of  the  handicap, 
but  he  was  wise  enough  to  say  nothing.  Bill  sat 
down  and  began  to  roll  a  cigarette. 

83 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

"O*  course,  they's  a  lot  of  things  In  life  that 
you  can't  learn  outa  books,"  Bill  said.  "But  th' 
feller  with  th'  book-learnin'  generally  has  th' 
upper  hand.  There's  one  thing  books  never 
rightly  teached  no  boy,  an*  that's  lookin'  ahead. 
IVe  often  wondered  why  they  didn't  pay  more 
'tention  t'  that,  but  mostly  a  boy  has  t'  learn  it 
for  himself.  If  he  happens  t'  be  born  in  the  wil- 
derness he  just  nach'lly  has  t'  learn  it,  or  I 
reckon  he'd  die." 

Whitey  fidgeted  about,  knowing  that  Bill  was 
on  one  of  his  favorite  topics,  and  wouldn't  stop 
and  tell  the  rest  of  his  news  until  he  was  run 
down. 

"Take  Injun,  fr  instance,"  Bill  went  on. 
"He's  got  a  way  o'  figurin'  out  things  that's  won- 
derful, an'  once  in  a  while  that  way  o'  figurin'  has 
saved  his  life.  They's  a  highbrow  word  for  that 
stuff,  an'  it's  'observation.'  You  just  stick  to 
that  observation  thing,  kid,  an'  youll  find  it  a 
heap  o'  use  t'  you  in  this  country." 

Whitey  knew  of  Injun's  wonderful  powers  of 
observation  which  he  had  often  shown  on  the 
trail,  but  could  not  help  thinking  that  acme  of 
84 


EDUCATION  AND  OTHER  THINGS 

his  red  friend's  cleverness  was  due  to  the  lore 
inherited  from  his  Indian  ancestors,  with  their 
knowledge  of  the  wild  and  of  the  habits  of  its 
beasts  and  birds.  But  Bill  droned  on  while 
Whitey  squirmed  with  impatience,  and  pres- 
ently a  welcome  interruption  came  in  the 
person  of  Shorty  Palmer,  who  dashed  into  the 
room. 

"Say,  Bill,"  Shorty  cried,  "you  got  th'  new 
time-table?" 

"Sure,"  said  Bill.  "Last  time  I  was  to  the 
Junction." 

"Well,  didn't  you  notice  that  th'  Eastern  Ex- 
press leaves  two  hours  earlier  now?" 

"No." 

"It  does,  an*  you'll  have  t'  burn  up  th'  prairie 
t'  make  it,  an'  Buck's  got  th'  team  all  hitched, 
an'  John  Big  Moose's  just  throwin'  things  into 
his  trunk,  an'  you'd  best  get  a  move  on." 

"Jumpin'  garter  snakes!"  cried  Bill.  "I 
never — " 

"Oh,"  Whitey  interrupted,  "this  observation 
thing  is  great  stuff.  And  you  just  stick  to  it, 
and—  " 

.85 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

"Shucks,  I  ain't  got  no  time  t'  argue  with 
kids,"  said  Bill,  and  started  for  the  door. 

"Hold  on,"  called  Whitey.  "What  was  that 
other  news  you  were  going  to  tell  me?" 

"Nothin',"  said  Bill,  "'cept  your  father 
writes  that  now  John  Big  Moose  is  goin',  you 
an'  Injun'll  have  t'  go  t'  school  at  th'  Forks," 
and  he  hurried  from  the  bunk  house,  followed 
by  Shorty. 

Whitey  sank  down  on  a  stool  in  despair. 
Gone  were  the  dreams  of  adventure,  of  wild 
geese  and  bears  just  wakening  from  their  winter's 
sleep.  School!  And  with  those  few  kids  at  the 
Forks! 

"What's  the  use  of  anything?"  Whitey 
muttered  dejectedly. 

And  Bull,  who  at  times  was  very  sympathetic. 
looked  up  at  him  as  much  as  to  say,  "Nothing." 


CHAPTER  VIII 
INJUN  TALKS 

THAT  night,  in  the  bunk  house,  Bill  Jordan  was 
holding  forth  to  a  select  few  —  Jim  Walker, 
Charlie  Bassett,  Buck  Higgins,  and  Shorty 
Palmer;  all  old  friends  and  true,  who  could  dis- 
pute and  quarrel  with  one  another  without  the 
serious  results  that  would  have  attended  such 
action  on  the  part  of  strangers. 

"Talkin'  'bout  Injuns,"  said  Bill,  "all  I  don't 
know  'bout  'em  you  c'd  write  on  a  hummin'- 
bird's  finger-nail." 

"  Hummin '-birds  don't  have  no  finger-nails," 
corrected  Shorty  Palmer. 

"Sure  they  don't,"  allowed  Bill.  "But  you 
c'd  write  it  on  one  if  they  did." 

"They  has  claws,"  persisted  Shorty.  "B'sides, 
no  hummin'-bird  ain't  goin'  t'  stay  still  long 
enough  for  you  to  write  on  his  claw." 

"I  know  that,  too,"  said  Bill.  "That  thing  I 
was  sayin'  is  what's  called  a  figger  o'  speech. 
Same  as  ' independent  as  a  hog  on  ice,'  or  'dead 


INJUN  AND  WHTTEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

as  a  door  nail. '  Ev'body  knows  them  things 
ain't  independent  or  dead.  It's  just  a  fancy  way 
o'  expressin'  yourself.  Can't  you  give  a  feller 
credit  for  no  'magination?" 

"Oh,  you  got  'magination  all  right,"  Shorty 
agreed.  "You  ain't  in  no  ways  hampered  by 
facts.  But,  anyway,  we  wasn't  talkin*  *bout 
Injuns." 

"No,  but  we  was  goin'  to,"  retorted  Bill,  "for 
I  was  about  t'  d'rect  th'  conversation  in  them 
channels  when  you  makes  them  ign'rant  inter- 
ruptions." 

"Oh,  go  on  an'  talk,  Bill,"  Jim  Walker  broke 
in.  "Don't  pertend  that  Shorty,  nor  th'  whole 
United  States  Army,  c'd  stop  you  if  you  wanted 
t'  chin." 

Thus  urged  Bill  began  his  discourse.  "What 
started  my  mind  workin'  on  this  here  Injun 
question  was  somethin'  that  come  up  to-day," 
he  said.  "John  Big  Moose  bein'  gone,  you  know, 
Mr.  Sherwood  writes  me  that  Injun  an'  Whitey 
is  t'  go  to  school  over  to  th'  Forks.  So  on  my 
way  back  from  drivin'  John  t'  th'  Junction  1 
stops  at  that  there  temple  o'  knowledge,  as  th' 


INJUN  TALKS 


feller  says,  t'  prepare  th'  mind  o'  Jennie  Adams, 
what  teaches  there,  for  th'  comin'  of  this  bunch 
of  new  scholards. 

"Y*  all  know  Jennie,  old  Hog  Adams's 
daughter.  TV  one  with  th'  wart  on  her  chin, 
that  was  engaged  for  matrimoney  to  Sid  Oilman 
till  one  day  they  was  ridin'  together,  an*  Sid's 
cayuse  slips  into  a  gopher  hole,  an*  Sid  falls  off 
an*  sprains  his  ankle,  an*  lets  loose  such  a  string 
o'  cuss  words  that  Jennie — " 

"Say,  Bill,"  protested  Buck  Higgins,  "'f  you 
couldn't  shoot  no  straighter'n  you  c'n  talk 
you'd  be  a  mighty  poor  risk  for  a  insurance 
comp'ny.  Nev'  mind  this  here  Jennie's  his- 
tory from  th'  time  of  th'  flood.  Get  down  t' 
th'  present  day." 

"Well,"  Bill  continued  reluctantly,  "I  tells 
Jennie  'bout  Injun  an'  Whitey's  bein'  *bout  t' 
be  added  to  her  string  o'  pupils,  an'  what  d'ye 
s'pose  she  responds  ?  That  there  ain't  nothin* 
doin'-with  Injun.  That  Whitey,  bein'  a  paleface, 
is  entitled  t'  absorb  all  th'  knowledge  he  c'n  hold, 
but  that  Injun,  bein'  copper-colored,  has  got 
t'  get  along  with  other  brunettes  of  his  kind,  back 

89 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO ^rijE  RESCUE 

in  some  school  east  of  here,  'specially  desig- 
nated by  a  patern'l  gov'ment." 

"Did  she  say  all  them  words?"  demanded 
Charlie  Bassett. 

"Just  like  that,"  Bill  replied.  "'S  though 
she  knew  'em  by  heart.  Must  'a*  bin  some  cir- 
cular, or  somep'n'  she'd  learned  aforehand." 

"Well,  what  d'ye  think  o'  that?"  Jim  Walker 
exploded.  "Think  o'  that  John  Big  Moose,  an' 
all  he  knows,  an'  him  bein'  allowed  t'  learn  folks 
in  some  Eastern  high  school,  an*  that  there 
Jennie  Adams,  what  don't  know  enough  t'  tell 
time  by  a  kitchen  clock,  not  bein'  puhmitted  t' 
learn  Injun  no  thin'.  It  ain't  right." 

Bill  Jordan  leaned  back,  well  satisfied  with 
the  effect  he  had  produced.  "'Course  it  ain't 
right,"  he  said.  "Th'  reason  for  it  is  that  th' 
cemetery  o'  learnin'  where  John's  goin'  t'  teach 
is  a  private  institootion,  an'  this  here  shack  o* 
Jennie's  is  controlled  by  th'  gov'ment.  I  ain't 
no  anarkiss,  but — " 

"What's  an  anarkiss?"  interrupted  Buck. 

"A  feller  what's  ag'in'  th'  gov'ment,"  ex- 
plained Bill.  "You  can't  make  me  b'lieve  that 
,  90 


INJUN  TALKS 


our  Injun  ain't  as  good  as  th'  scholards  at 
Jennie's  emporium.  Take  that  potato-faced 
brother  Jim  of  hers,  f'r  instance,  that's  a  coyote 
in  'pearance  an*  a  rattlesnake  at  heart.  Why, 
Injun's  a  —  a  —  prince  of  timber  buck  too  com- 
pared t'  him." 

Bill  did  not  know  what  a  Prince  of  Timbuctoo 
was,  and  neither  did  the  other  punchers,  but  it 
sounded  impressive,  and  served  to  vent  his  feel- 
ings against  a  law  which  affected  his  friend  In- 
jun —  for  as  such  Bill,  and  all  the  men  in  the 
bunk  house,  regarded  the  boy. 

There  may  have  been  reasons  why  the  Indian 
children  were  kept  from  association  with  whites. 
But  in  the  minds  of  these  men  of  the  plains,  who 
knew  both  the  bad  and  the  good  in  the  red  men, 
and  the  bad  and  the  good  in  the  white  men  of 
that  day  and  that  country,  the  reasons  were  not 
founded  on  justice.  Furthermore,  they  were 
conceived  by  lawmakers  far  away.  So  the  cow- 
boys vented  their  feelings  against  what  seemed 
to  them  rank  injustice. 

"But  t'  get  back  t'  what  I  know  'bout  Injuns," 
said  Bill,  after  the  discussion  had  gone  on  for 
91 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

some  time.  "What  d'ye  s'pose  our  Injun  thinks 
'bout  this  here  rule  as  says  he  ain't  as  good  as 
that  pie-faced  Jim  Adams?  He  knows  'tain't 
right,  same  as  we  do,  an*  he  thinks  to  himself, 
'Here's  another  thing  I  got  t'  put  up  with,  an'  if 
I  rare  up  an'  make  a  row  'bout  it,  I'll  get  th' 
wuss  of  it,  as  my  people  always  has.  So  what'll 
I  do?  I'll  lay  low,  an'  say  nothin',  an'  I  won't 
give  them  white  brothers  no  chance  t'  see  that 
they've  hurt  my  feelin's.  I'll  hide  my  hurt  with 
my  pride  —  one  o'  th'  only  things  my  white 
brothers  has  left  me.'" 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment  in  the  bunk 
house.  Then  Jim  Walker  spoke.  "Well,  Injun 
may  think  that,"  he  said.  "But  whatever  he 
thinks  you  won't  never  really  know.  He's  that 
savin*  o'  speech,  like  all  Injuns." 

"They're  savin'  enough  o'  speech  here, 
'mongst  us  folks,"  Bill  Jordan  said.  "But  with 
their  own  people  they're  great  speech-makers." 

"G'wan,"  objected  Buck  Higgins.  /'Who 
ever  heard  of  a  Injun  talkin'  much." 

"Yes,  siree,"  Bill  declared.  "They're  great 
talkers  'mongst  folks  they  knows  and  trusts. 
92 


LNJUN  TALKS 


Why,  at  their  pow-wows  they're  regular  orators. 
Ev'body  knows  that  what's  had  a  lot  t'  do  with 
'em,  same  as  me.  John  Big  Moose  was  easy  with 
white  folks,  an'  look  the  way  he  could  spill 
langwidge.  'Most  as  good  as  we  all." 

The  others  silently  agreed  to  this,  thinking 
what  a  great  advantage  it  would  be  to  John  Big 
Moose  in  the  Eastern  college  to  talk  as  well  as 
they  did. 

"Our  Injun  boy  could  talk  as  well  as  John 
Big  Moose,  if  he  was  usin'  his  own  speech,  an' 
wanted  to,"  continued  Bill.  "He's  rather  jerky 
now  'count  of  his  not  knowin'  our  langwidge  very 
well,  for  one  thing,  an'  from  bein'  in  th'  habit  of 
concealin'  his  thoughts  from  white  men  —  like 
all  other  Injuns  —  for  another  thing." 

Now  you,  who  read  this,  must  know  by  this 
time  how  well  Bill  Jordan  liked  to  tell  things 
and  to  prove  them  —  if  he  could;  and  if  he 
couldn't  make  the  other  fellow  believe  they  were 
true,  to  think  up  something  the  other  fellow 
couldn't  answer;  and  if  he  couldn't  do  that,  to 
go  away  before  the  other  could  think  of  an 
answer.  We  all  have  known  boys  or  men  of  this 
93 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

sort,  and,  being  human,  we  don't  like  to  have 
them  assuming  that  they  know  more  than  we  do. 
That  is,  we  don't  like  it  all  the  time.  And  this 
sort  of  feeling  was  stirring  in  that  bunk  house, 
at  that  moment.  And  finally  Charlie  Bassett 
spoke. 

"Bill,"  he  said,  "you're  allus  tellin'  us  some- 
thin'  'bout  somethin'  what  we  don't  know 
nothin'  'bout,  with  th'  idee  of  gettin*  us  t'  think 
you're  a  pretty  wise  feller.  Now,  all  this  you've 
bin  tellin'  us  'bout  Injuns  sounds  reason'ble, 
but  if  you  want  us  to  really  b'lieve  it,  you've  got 
t'  show  us.  Ain't  that  so,  fellers?" 

The  others,  thus  appealed  to,  nodded  solemnly. 

"How'm  I  goin'  t'  prove  it?"  asked  Bill,  thus 
driven  into  a  corner. 

"By  gettin'  Injun  t'  talk,"  Charlie  answered. 
"An'  furthermore  I'll  betcha  a  can  of  peaches  or 
a  apple  pie  for  each  one  of  this  gang,  all  'round, 
that  you  can't  prove  it." 

Canned  peaches  are  regarded  as  a  great  luxury 

in  the  West,  or  were  at  that  time,  to  say  nothing 

of  apple  pies,  and  Bill  considered  the  matter. 

Moreover,  his  reputation  was  at  stake," and  that 

94 


INJUN  TALKS 


was  a  bigger  thing  to  him  than  peaches  or  apple 
pie  either.  After  careful  thought  he  spoke. 

"I'll  have  t'  go  you,"  he  said,  "but  there's  two 
conditions  to  this  here  contest." 

"Give  'em  a  name,"  said  Charlie. 

"TV  first  is,  that  Injun's  gotta  be  among 
friends." 

"We're  all  his  friends,"  Charlie  said.  "Won't 
we  do?" 

"Yes,  just  us  an'  Whitey,  if  he's  along,"  Bill 
agreed.  "The  next  condition  is,  that  I  don't 
agree  t'  make  Injun  talk  direct  on  no  subject. 
F'r  instance,  if  I  asks  him  what  he  thinks  'bout 
bein'  barred  out  o'  that  there  school,  I  don't 
promise  he'll  tell  me  right  out.  He  may  spring 
some  tale  or  yarn  that  shows  what  he  thinks; 
mebbe  he  will,  but  I  don't  claim  t'  get  no  exact 
expression  of  his  feelin's  in  th*  matter." 

"Them  conditions  goes,"  Charlie  agreed, 
"don't  they,  fellers?" 

The  "  fellers  "  agreed  that  they  did,  and  it  now 

only  remained  to  await  the  coming  of  Injun.  He 

was  Whitey 's  guest  at  the  ranch  house  that 

night,  the  night  of  the  last  day  of  Whitey's  free- 

95 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

dom  from  school.  As  it  was  early,  no  doubt  the 
boys  would  soon  appear  at  the  bunk  hcuse,  to 
listen  to  the  sort  of  Arabian  Nights'  entertain- 
ment that  was  afforded  by  the  tales  of  the  cow- 
punchers. 

There  was  a  momentary  lull  in  the  talk  of  the 
men,  a  lull  in  keeping  with  the  outer  night,  which 
was  still  and  very  dark.  Presently  a  faint  light 
nickered  across  the  southern  windows  of  the 
bunk  house,  followed  by  a  low  rumble  in^  the 
northeast. 

"Storm  in  th*  mountains,"  volunteered  Jim. 

Another  moment  of  silence  was  followed  by  a 
brighter  glare,  as  the  sky  in  the  south  caught  the 
reflection  of  the  northern  lightning.  The  former 
rumble  was  succeeded  by  a  more  distinct  series 
of  crashes,  as  though  the  storm  gods  of  Indian 
belief  were  warming  up  to  their  work. 

"Reck'n  she's  comin'  this  way,"  said  Bill 
Jordan. 

There  was  the  sighing  of  a  gentle  breeze 
through  the  cottonwoods,  then  a  glare  that 
shamed  the  oil  lamps,  and,  so  fast  that  it  al- 
most might  be  said  to  trip  on  the  light,  a  crash 

96 


INJUN  TALKS 


that  caused  the  men  to  turn  and  regard  one 
another,  almost  in  awe. 

"Them  mountain  storms  sure  comes  down- 
hill fast,"  said  Shorty. 

As  though  announced  by  the  breeze  a  roar  of 
wind  tore  through  the  trees,  and  shook  the  bunk 
house  windows.  The  darkness  was  split  by 
vivid,  bluish-green  flashes  to  which  the  thunder 
responded  in  an  almost  constant  cannonading. 
The  door  opened,  and  Injun  and  Whitey  forced 
their  way  in,  then  threw  their  weight  upon  it 
in  the  effort  to  close  it  against  the  force  of  the 
wind.  Bill  went  to  their  aid. 

"Funny  how  th'  wind  allus  swings  'round 
with  them  storms,"  said  Bill,  when  the  door  was 
closed.  "Seems  t'  back  up  an*  get  underneath 
'em,  then  push  'em  from  behind." 

"We've  missed  the  rain,  anyway,"  gasped 
tVhitey,  sinking  down  on  a  bunk. 

"Not  by  much,"  said  Bill,  as  the  swish  of  a 
downpouring  torrent  sounded  on  the  walls  and 
roof  and  hissed  through  the  bending  branches 
of  the  cottonwoods. 

Gradually  the  thunder  drew  gnimblingly 
97 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

away.  The  wind  ceased  to  clamor,  and  for  a 
time  the  rain,  relieved  of  the  gale's  force,  fell 
straight  in  a  steady  tattoo  on  the  roof.  Then  it 
passed^and  a  slighter  coolness  of  the  air,  notice- 
able even  in  the  closeness  of  the  bunk  house,  was 
the  only  token  left  of  the  storm's  spurt  of  fury. 

"Them  storms  is  like  some  folks'  money; 
comes  hard  and  goes  easy,"  said  Shorty  Palmer. 
J"  Comes  quick  an'  goes  quicker's  more  like 
it,"  corrected  Bill  Jordan. 

"Have  it  your  own  way,"  grumbled  Shorty. 
"Not  that  I  have  t'  tell  you  that,  for  you'd 
have  it,  anyway." 

Now  that  the  momentary  interruption  of  the 
summer  tempest  had  passed,  the  minds  of  the 
company  turned  to  the  subject  of  Bill  and 
Charlie's  wager,  with  the  object  of  it,  Injun, 
sitting  on  a  cracker  box  and  gazing  solemnly 
at  nothing  in  particular.  The  other  men  all 
looked  expectantly  at  Bill,  who  fidgeted  a  mo- 
ment in  his  chair,  then  started,  in  what  he  in- 
tended for  a  light,  conversational  tone. 

"Y'  all  ready  for  school  to-morrow,  Whitey?" 
Bill  began,  on  his  roundabout  attack. 
98 


INJUN  TALKS 


"  Yeh,"  Whitey  replied  gloomily. 

"Too  bad  'bout  you,  Injun.  Kind  o'  disap- 
pointing their  barrin'  you  out.  Kind  o'  unfair, 
too." 

Injun's  response  to  this  was  as  broad  a  grin 
as  he  ever  showed  to  the  world.  "Me  glad," 
he  said.  "No  like  school." 

This  was  rather  a  setback  to  Bill,  who  had 
expected  to  play  on  Injun's  feeling  of  resent- 
ment. He  rolled  a  cigarette  and  planned  a  new 
line  of  attack.  He  knew  that  all  the  punchers 
would  be  glad  to  see  him  fail  to  make  Injun 
talk,  and  this  didn't  make  Bill  any  more  easy 
in  his  mind.  It  may  have  been  pleasing  to  him 
to  have  worked  up  a  reputation  for  knowing 
more  than  the  others,  but  this  reputation  was 
not  without  its  drawbacks.  For  one  thing,  it 
was  hard  to  keep  it  up;  for  another,  it  filled  his 
friends  with  glee  when  he  failed  to  keep  it  up. 
He  puffed  hard  on  his  cigarette,  and  thought 
harder. 

Whitey  broke  the  silence.  "Tell  us  a  story, 
Bill,"  he  suggested. 

"I  ain't  exactly  got  no  story  in  mind,"  Bill 
99 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

replied.  "We  was  talkin'  'bout  folks,  b'fore 
you  an'  Injun  come,  an'  how  they  is  apt  t'  be 
unjust,  'specially  in  th'  way  o'  makin'  laws  an' 
such,  an'  it  kind  o'  got  me  thinkin'  serious;  kind 
o'  drove  stories  out  o'  my  head." 

"Why,  John  Big  Moose  was  talking  about 
that  the  other  day,"  Whitey  exclaimed,  "and 
how  hard  it  is  for  one  body  of  people  to  under- 
stand and  sympathize  with  another,  and  about 
that  say  in',  'Man's  inhumanity  to  man  makes 
countless  thousands  mourn.'  Of  course,  you 
know  that  saying,  Bill?" 

"'Course,"  answered  Bill.  "My  father  was 
allus  mentionin'  of  it." 

"Your  old  man  was  a  blacksmith,  wa'n't  he, 
Bill?"  Buck  Higgins  asked. 

"Sure." 

"Seems  t'  me  'twould  'a'  bin  more  in  the  way 
o'  sense  if  he'd  talked  'bout  man's  unhumanness 
t'  hosses,"  Buck  said  lightly. 

Bill  ignored  this,  and  got  back  to  the  serious 

side  of  the  subject.    "It's  somethin'  t'  make  a 

critter  think,"  he  declared.    "Take  white  folks 

an'  Injuns,  f'r  instance.  /They  ain't  never  rightly 

I  oo 


INJUN  TALKS 


understood  each  other,  'cause  they  ain't  never 
bin  rightly  in  tune  with  each  other,  an'  that's 
another  way  o'  sayin'  they  ain't  bin  in  sympathy. 
An'  th'  only  way  they  could  get  that  way  would 
be  t'  tell,  outspoke,  what  they  thinks  o'  each 
other.  Now  they's  Injun,  here.  He's  bin  our 
friend  for  some  time,  an'  we  bin  his,  but  no  one 
ain't  never  knowed  his  real  'pinion  of  us,  an'  I 
think  it'd  be  some  help  in  adjustin'  matters  all 
round  if  we  did." 

Shielding  his  mouth  with  his  hand,  Shorty 
Palmer  turned  to  Buck  Higgins,  and  spoke  in 
a  hoarse  whisper,  that  could  be  heard  distinctly 
by  everybody.  "Bill's  like  one  o'  them  big  ex- 
press trains  you  see  at  th'  Junction,"  Shorty 
hissed.  "Takes  him  some  time  t'  get  started, 
but  he  gets  somewheres  when  he  does." 

Bill  tried  to  look  as  though  he  hadn't  heard 
this,  and  turned  to  Injun,  with  what  was  sup- 
posed to  be  an  expression  of  brotherly  frankness 
on  his  face.  "  Just  among  friends,  Injun,  d'ye  think 
white  folks  as  a  class  stacks  up  perty  good?" 

Injun  stared  at  Bill.    "Huh,"  he  grunted. 
"Mebbe  some  good,  mebbe  some  bad." 
101 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

"O'  course/'  said  Bill,  "they's  good  an*  bad 
'mongst  'em,  but  I  mean  t'  stack  'em  up  against 
Injuns,  as  a  whole  tribe,  see?" 

"Injuns  same  way.  Mebbe  some  good,  mebbe 
some  bad." 

This  did  not  seem  to  be  getting  anywhere, 
and  Bill  became  more  personal.  "Now,  Injun, 
honest,"  he  said,  "don't  you  think  your  peo- 
ple are  underdogs  in  these  here  conditions  the 
whites  have  forced  'em  into,  an'  that  they  got  a 
constant  grouch  against  most  whites?" 

"My  people  good  people.  Him  see  straight," 
Injun  replied,  with  dignity. 

Bill  was  sorry  now  that  he  had  started  on  this 
line  of  attack.  He  knew  that  the  Min-i-ko-wo-ju 
tribe,  a  branch  of  the  Sioux  or  Dakotas,  of  which 
Injun  was  a  member,  had  been  treated  very 
fairly  by  Mr.  Sherwood,  Whitey's  father.  That 
largely  through  the  influence  of  Mr.  Sherwood, 
aided  and  abetted  by  John  Big  Moose,  the 
educated  Dakota,  the  Min-i-ko-wo-jus  had  come 
in  for  their  share  of  the  recently  discovered  gold 
mine.  He  also  knew  that  gratitude  was  a  strong 
factor  in  the  Indian  character. 

IO2 


INJUN  TALKS 


But  with  all  his  boasted  knowledge  of  his  red 
brothers,  what  Bill  did  not  know  was  what  Injun 
was  thinking  of,  and  that  was  something  uncon- 
nected with  his  white  brothers,  or  their  justice 
or  injustice  to  his  kind.  It  was  something  in- 
duced by  the  stillness  of  the  night,  following  the 
storm.  Thoughts  of  another  night,  when  Injun 
was  not  in  a  long,  narrow  bunk-house  room,  sur- 
rounded by  booted  cowboy  friends,  but  in  a 
tepee,  dimly  lighted  by  a  central  fire,  around 
which  squatted  his  serious-faced,  copper-hued 
kinsmen,  smoking  their  long  pipes,  and  telling 
of  their  deeds  and  mishaps. 

And  when  his  mind  was  fixed  on  a  subject, 
Injun  —  like  other  Indians  —  WAS  not  to  be 
deflected  by  the  thoughts  of  others.  Bill  might 
talk  and  talk  of  justice  and  injustice,  or  about 
cows  or  cartridges;  Injun's  mind  would  stay  put, 
and  when  he  spoke,  if  it  was  two  hours  after- 
wards, it  would  be  of  that  night  in  tht  tepee. 

But  it  was  not  that  long  before  the  silence 

that  had  fallen  on  the  men  was  broken.    BilJ 

was  trying  to  think  of  another  line  of  argument 

that  would  induce  Injun  to  speak  at  length, 

103 


[NJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

VVhitey,  who  knew  Injun  better  than  any  one 
else,  was  looking  at  him,  and  realizing  that  he 
had  something  on  his  mind.  "Why  don't  you 
tell  us  a  story,  Injun?"  Whitey  asked. 

There  was  another  long  pause  in  the  bunk 
house,  and  nothing  could  be  heard  save  the  tick- 
ing of  the  alarm  clock  that  was  Wong's  special 
property,  on  which  he  relied  to  give  him  his 
three  A.M.  call  to  get  the  punchers'  breakfast 
ready  by  sunup.  And  then  Injun  spoke,  he  who 
rarely  talked,  save  in  monosyllables. 

"When  owl  sleep;  when  thunder  don't  beat 
drum;  when  wind  don't  make  noise  like  big 
whistle;  when  trees  stand  straight  up  and  don't 
bend;  when  everything  quick  is  in  hole;  when 
Great  Spirit  he  make  sign  and  everybody  him 
sleep  —  then  I  hear  my  papa  tell  story  about 
my  mamma's  brother;  how  he  get  'urn  ringers 
worn  off  on  end.  My  mamma's  brother  him 
great  buck;  call  him  'buck'  when  him  brave, 
before  him  made  Chief. 

"My  mamma's  brother  him  know  white  man 
scout,  great  friend  my  mamma's  brother.  Him 
talk  Indian  talk,  just  like  Sioux.  My  mamma's 
104 


INJUN  TALKS 


brother  friend  him  work  for  army;  him  watch 
when  Indian  go  on  war  path.  Him  good  man. 
Him  like  Indian.  Him  know  Indian  no  bad. 

"My  mamma's  brother  friend  him  say  to  my 
mamma's  brother  him  like  to  bring  his  friend, 
White  Chief,  to  Indian  war  dance.  Him  say 
White  Chief  he  no  tell  what  he  see.  My  mamma's 
brother  he  say  no:  White  Chief,  with  much 
ribbon  on  clothes,  have  crooked  tongue.  My 
mamma's  brother  friend  he  say  White  Chief  he 
no  tell ;  give  word  before  Great  Spirit.  My  mam- 
ma's brother  then  he  say  come." 
"  As  the  clipped  sentences  fell  in  soft  gutturals 
from  Injun's  lips  his  face  remained  expression- 
less, except  for  his  eyes,  which  gazed  back  into 
the  dim,  smoke-laden  tepee  and  into  the  face  of 
his  father,  a  great  story-teller  of  a  race  of  great 
story-tellers;  a  survivor  of  the  age-old  days 
when  the  deeds  and  legends  of  all  men  were  made 
history  by  the  voice  alone.  And  the  men,  their 
wager  forgotten,  and  Whitey,  too,  leaned  for- 
ward and  saw  the  tepee  and  saw  Injun's  uncle 
talking  to  the  scout,  whom  he  trusted,  and  who 
trusted  the  White  Chief. 
105 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

In  what  followed,  Injun  left  some  of  the  de- 
tails to  the  imagination  of  his  hearers,  or  per- 
haps thought  that  they  knew  of  them.  Of  how, 
before  the  great  war  dance,  the  chiefs  of  the 
tribe  assembled  in  conclave  in  their  council 
tent.  And  before  these  chiefs,  who  sat  as  a  sort 
of  jury,  appeared  the  young  men  of  the  tribe. 
And  each  young  Indian  told  of  his  brave  deeds, 
performed  since  the  last  war  dance,  and  accord- 
ing to  these  deeds  the  chiefs  decided  whether  the 
young  man  was  worthy  to  become  a  chief. 

He  needed  no  witnesses;  his  word  was  sufficient 
—  for  the  Indian  spoke  only  the  truth.  And  the 
descendant  of  a  chief  was  held  more  worthy  of 
honor  than  another,  for  brave  blood  flowed  in 
his  veins.  But  after  each  young  man  was  deemed 
worthy,  he  must  prove  his  bravery  at  the  dance. 
From  a  center  pole  hung  a  number  of  rawhide 
thongs.  Through  the  breast  or  back  of  each 
young  brave  two  slits  were  cut,  and  a  stick  or 
skewer  was  passed  through  them,  and  a  thong 
tied  to  each  end  of  the  skewer.  Then  the  braves 
danced  around  the  pole,  leaning  back  and  sup- 
porting their  weight  on  the  skewer,  and  wher 
106 


INJUN  TALKS 


this  weight  tore  the  skewer  from  the  flesh,  the 
braves  were  deemed  worthy  to  become  chiefs. 
But  should  one  give  up,  or  faint  from  pain,  he 
was  deemed  unworthy.  And  the  torture  suffered 
by  all  was  great  —  but  the  torture  borne  by 
those  through  whose  backs  the  skewers  were 
passed  was  greater. 

"White  Chief  and  scout  come  to  Indian  war 
dance,"  Injun  continued.  "At  dance,  when 
braves  make  talk  and  tell  how  they  do  things 
what  make  'em  chief,  my  mamma's  brother  he 
tell  how  him  ride  on  prairie  and  see  two  white 
men.  Him  ride  to  them  quick  to  show  him 
friend.  White  men  say  Injun  bad.  White  men 
shoot  at  my  mamma's  brother.  My  mamma's 
brother  him  shoot  at  white  men.  Him  kill 
white  men.  My  mamma's  brother  him  made 
chief,  after  him  dance  with  stick  through  breast 
until  stick  break. 

"Scout,  my  mamma's  brother  friend,  and 
White  Chief  they  go  'way.  My  mamma's 
brother  friend  him  say  to  White  Chief,  'You 
see  now  why  you  no  tell.  Injun  him  good,  no 
blame.  White  men  they  bad,  want  kill  Injun.' 
107 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

"White  Chief  him  say,  'No,  Injun  bad.  Me 
tell.' 

"Him  go  back  and— " 

The  door  of  the  bunk  house  opened  suddenly 
and  a  cowboy  stalked  in,  a  lean,  dark  man, 
rather  short  and  slim,  with  eyes  of  that  peculiar 
light,  slaty  gray  that  have  a  staring  effect; 
apparently  no  depth  to  them.  These,  with 
heavy  overhanging  brows  and  an  inclination^to 
sneer,  gave  him  a  forbidding  appearance.  His 
hat  and  slicker  glistened  with  water.  At  his 
entrance  Injun  ceased  speaking  abruptly. 

"Gee,  I  got  soaked  in  that  rain,"  said  the  new- 
comer. "Stopped  at  th'  Cut  on  my  way  back 
from  th'  Junction.  Th'  railroad  hands  got  paid, 
to-day,  an'  they're  raisin'  cain.  Wisht  I'd 
stayed  there,  'stead  o'  gettin'  soaked." 

"I  wish  you  had,  too,"  Bill  Jordan  mur- 
mured to  himself,  unheard  by  the  other. 

This  puncher,  Henry  Dorgan,  was  a  man  who 
was  vaguely  disliked  on  the  ranch,  with  nothing 
in  particular  on  which  to  hang  the  cause  of  the 
feeling.  It  was  characteristic  of  him,  for  one 
thing,  *  that  he  had  no  nickname.  In  a  country 
108 


INJUN  TALKS 


where  almost  every  one's  name  was  familiarly 
shortened  into  Hank,  or  Bill,  or  Jim,  or  was 
changed  to  Kid,  or  Red,  or  Shorty,  he  remained 
Henry  —  not  even  Harry. 

He  threw  off  his  hat  and  slicker,  stamped  to 
shake  off  the  moisture  that  clung  to  his  boots,  sat 
down,  and  prepared  to  make  himself  at  home. 

"Go  ahead,  Injun,"  said  Jim  Walker.  "You 
was  just  at  th'  most  interestin'  part." 

Injun  rose,  walked  to  a  bucket  in  a  corner, 
poured  himself  a  dipper  of  water,  and  drank 
calmly.  Then  he  returned,  sat  down  and  looked 
straight  ahead  of  him.  There  was  a  painful 
tension,  of  which  Dorgan  did  not  seem  to  be 
aware.  Buck  Higgins  tried  to  dispel  it. 

"Perceed,  Injun,"  he  said.  "We're  all 
a-waitin'  on  you." 

Without  embarassment,  Injun  continued  to 
say  nothing.  Bill  Jordan  began  to  show  signs  of 
nervousness,  which  finally  broke  into  speech. 

"Had  anythin'  t'  eat,  Henry?"  he  asked. 

"Nope.  Too  busy  drinkin'  an'  things,  at  th' 
Cut,"  replied  Dorgan,  who,  however,  showed 
no  signs  of  intoxication. 
109 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

"Better  go  out  t'  th'  kitchen,  an'  rustle  your- 
self somepV,"  Bill  suggested. 

"Wong'll  get  crazy  if  I  monkey  with  his 
grub,"  objected  Henry. 

"I'll  take  care  o'  Wong.  G'wan,  you  don't 
wanta  be  hungry,"  Bill  said. 

"I  c'd  do  with  some  beans  an'  coffee,"  Dorgan 
allowed,  and  took  himself  off. 

After  he  was  gone,  there  was  another  period 
of  silence.  It  was  so  unusual  for  Injun  to  talk  at 
all,  and  the  effort  to  start  him  again  having 
failed,  it  seemed  now  to  occur  to  everybody  that 
it  probably  would  be  better  to  let  him  alone 
until  he  got  in  the  mood  again.  Presently 
Whitey  saw  Injun's  eyes  take  on  their  former 
faraway  look,  as  though  they  were  gazing  into 
his  father's  tepee  fire,  or  into  the  red  faces  of  his 
kinsmen. 

"What  did  the  White  Chief  do  when  he  went 
back?"  Whitey  asked  softly. 

"Him  go  back  and  get  plenty  soldiers,"  re- 
sponded Injun.    "And  come  get  my  mamma's 
brother,  and  tie  him  on  pony,  with  him  face 
looking  at  pony  tail.  My  mamma's  brother  him 
no 


INJUN  TALKS 


lose  much  blood  where  stick  break  through  chest, 
Him  almost  died  when  get  to  Fort.  White  Chief 
put  him  in  log  calaboose.  Him  stay  there  long, 
long  time;  mebbe  so  twenty,  thirty  moons. 

"Then  him  dig  dirt  in  floor  with  hands,  and 
cover  up  when  they  bring  him  bread  and  water 
—  and  he  hide  his  hands  all  the  time,  fingers 
so  much  bleed.  Then  when  dark  and  no  moon, 
him  dig  out  last  dirt,  him  come  up  outside.  Him 
run  sixty  mile,  him  come  my  father,  him  tell  my 
father. 

"My  father  he  say  to  our  people,  'Now,  we 
fight,  and  we  fight  heap!'" 

Injun  paused  for  a  moment,  as  one  considering 
and  about  to  utter  judgment.  "White  man  bad. 
Injun  he  no  bad,"  he  said. 

Injun's  story  was  concluded.  He  rose  and 
walked  from  the  bunk  house. 

There  was  a  moment's  hush  broken  by  Jim 
Walker.  "Who  in  thunder  d'ye  s'pose  that 
White  Chief  was?"  he  demanded.  "Gee!  We 
sure  butted  into  some  real  Injun  history." 

"That's  what  I'm  thinkin',"  said  Bill  Jordan. 
"An'  seein'  as  how  Injun's  uncle  was  old  Rain- 
lii 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

in-the-Face,  an*  seein'  as  how  th'  old  man's 
fingers  was  all  stubbed  off  at  th'  ends,  an'  seem' 
as  how  Lonesome  Charlie  Reynolds,  th'  greatest 
scout  what  ever  lived,  was  a  great  friend  of  th' 
Injuns,  an*  spoke  their  langwidge,  an'  seein'  as 
how  he  was  scout  for  General  Terry,  up  at  old 
Fort  Bufoid,  an'  seein'  as  how  that's  where 
th'  Seventh  Cavalry  was  quartered,  an'  seein'  as 
how  Captain  Tom  Custer  was  always  hated  by 
th'  Sioux,  an'  by  old  Rain-in-the-Face  in  par- 
tic'ler  —  by  golly,  boys !  — " 

Bill  paused,  as  he  and  the  men  were  impressed 
by  the  important  point  to  which  his  line  of  argu- 
ment was  leading,  then  went  on  excitedly:  "We 
only  have  t'  reason  deflectively  t'  put  our  fingers 
on  th'  button  what  caused  th'  doggonedest 
Injun  fights  this  country  ever  knowed ! 

"It  begins,  gee  whiz!  it  begins  —  we  all  are 
all  right,  boys!  It  begins  in  '75,  with  Injun's 
tribe.  An'  in  '76,  General  Custer  an'  Captain 
Tom  Custer  an*  two  hundred  an'  sixty-one  o' 
their  men  was  all  wiped  out.  An'  them  Injuns 
kep'  right  on  fightin'  till  '81,  when  John  Gall, 
th'  big  Sioux  Chief,  surrenders  at  that  big  fight 

112 


INJUN  TALKS 


in  th'  snow,  when  it  was  fifty-two  below,  an* 
them  Injuns  was  fightin'  in  their  skins,  with  no 
coverin'  but  a  blanket. 

"Just  think  of  it,  boys.  An*  sittin'  right  here 
in  this  bunk  house,  years  an'  years  after,  us  cow- 
punchers  get  th'  real  cause  o'  th'  whole  rumpus, 
which  them  Washington  folks  has  bin  figurin' 
out  for  years,  an'  couldn't  do  it  none  whatever. 
Didn't  I  tell  you  all  when  a  Injun  talks  he  says 
somethin'?" 

There  was  no  disputing  this,  and  the  men 
looked  solemn  as  they  considered  the  series  of 
great  tragedies  and  the  chain  of  circumstances 
which  had  led  up  to  them.  Then,  as  the  im- 
pression made  on  Bill  Jordan  began  to  fade,  and 
thoughts  of  his  own  importance  to  take  its  place, 
he  turned  triumphantly  to  Jim  Walker. 

"Well,  did  I  make  Injun  talk,  an'  do  we  get 
them  peaches?"  Bill  demanded. 

"You  make  him  talk!"  Jim  returned  scorn- 
fully. "All  you  did  was  t'  make  him  shut  up. 
Whitey  made  him  talk." 

"G'wan,"  Bill  retorted.  "Didn't  them  sug- 
gestions o'  mine  'bout  white  men  an'  Injun? 
"3 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCLi: 

start  him  thinkin'  'bout  that  bad  White  Chief 
hombre?  An'  didn't  I  get  rid  o'  Henry  Dorgan, 
'cause  Injun's  distrustful  of  him,  an'  wouldn't 
chin  with  him  'round?" 

"  'F  y'ask  for  my  opinion,  I  don't  b'lieve  none 
o'  you  made  him  talk,"  said  Shorty  Palmer.  "I 
think  he  just — " 

"I  didn't  ask  for  your  opinion,"  Bill  inter- 
rupted. "No  feller  c'n  tell  me  nothin'  'bout 
Injuns — " 

But  if  this  bunk  house  argument  were  followed 
to  its  end  I  should  have  to  write  another  book. 
Perhaps  you  can  guess  who  paid  for  the  peaches. 


CHAPTER  IX 
FISH-HOOKS  AND  HOOKY 

AFTER  breakfast  the  next  morning  when  Injun 
and  Whitey  came  out  of  the  ranch  house,  Whitey 
was  heavy-hearted.  The  thought  of  going  to  that, 
school  at  the  Forks  was  the  cause  of  his  depres- 
sion. It  was  like  some  sort  of  penalty  one  must 
pay  for  being  a  boy.  Injun  was  to  escort  Whitey 
to  the  school,  as  an  act  of  friendship  —  as  one 
might  go  to  another's  funeral. 

Sitting  Bull  was  sleeping  peaceably  on  the, 
veranda.  Sitting  Bull  had  no  regard  for  the  man 
who  said  that  "early  to  bed  and  early  to  rise 
makes  a  man  healthy  and  wealthy  and  wise,"  or 
he  never  had  heard  of  him.  Sitting  Bull  always 
slept  late.  There  were  other  rules  that  boys 
must  follow  to  which  Bull  paid  no  attention.  He 
did  not  chew  his  food  carefully,  as  every  one 
knows  that  boys  should.  There  were  times  when 
Whitey  envied  Bull,  and  this  first  day  of  school 
was  one  of  them. 

But  when  the  boys  started  for  the  corral  to  get 
"5 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

their  ponies,  Bull  roused  himself  and  expressed 
a  wish  to  go  with  them.  He  had  a  mistaken 
idea  that  he  could  keep  up  with  the  horses  for 
nine  miles,  and  it  was  with  some  difficulty  that 
Whitey  got  him  to  give  it  up. 

"He  don't  know  what  he's  missing,"  Whitey 
said  sadly,  as  he  and  Injun  turned  from  the 
disappointed  Bull  and  walked  reluctantly  to 
the  corral. 

It  was  a  beautiful  day,  too.  Did  you  ever 
notice  that  the  first  day  of  school  always  is 
beautiful?  Injun  and  Whitey's  ponies  made 
short  work  of  the  nine  miles  of  road  that  skirted 
the  foothills  and  led  to  the  Forks,  the  spirited 
animals  seeming  to  drink  in  the  bracing  morning 
air  that  swept  down  from  the  mountains  as 
though  it  were  a  tonic,  which  indeed  it  was. 

The  Forks  was  a  spot  at  which  a  road  that  led 
down  from  the  mountains  joined  the  road  to  the 
Junction.  The  mountain  road  was  little  more 
than  a  trail,  seldom  traveled,  and  almost  over- 
grown with  grass,  and  where  it  joined  the  other 
stood  the  shack  which  was  used  as  a  schoolhouse. 
This  shack  had  been  built  by  some  early  home- 
116 


FISH-HOOKS  AND  HOOKY  . 

seeker,  who  had  long  ago  abandoned  it  to  seek 
other  pastures.  It  was  old  and  discouraged- 
looking,  and  patched  in  spots  with  pieces  of 
tin  and  boards.  As  a  temple  of  learning  it  was 
not  an  inviting-looking  place.  , 

The  pupils  evidently  had  assembled  in  the 
shack,  for  tied  in  the  shelter  of  some  maples 
near  by  were  four  cayuses  and  two  weary-looking 
mules.  There  were  eight  scholars,  as  Whitey 
knew,  so  he  guessed  that  the  mules  carried 
double.  Injun  seemed  much  more  cheerful  on 
this  occasion  than  Whitey,  who  dismounted  and 
tied  Monty  near  the  other  animals.  Then,  before 
entering  for  the  sacrifice,  he  tiptoed  over  to  the 
shack  and  peeped  into  the  window.  He  tiptoed 
back  to  where  Injun  sat  calmly  on  his  pinto. 
There  was  a  look  of  horror  on  Whitey's  face. 

"Girls!  "he  whispered. 

Bill  Jordan  had  not  told  Whitey  that  some  of 
Miss  Adams's  pupils  were  of  the  fair  sex.  He  had 
left  that  as  a  pleasant  surprise.  And  there  were 
just  two  things  in  life  that  Whitey  was  mortally 
afraid  of  —  one  was  girls  and  the  other  was 
school. 

117 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

Some  persons  regard  the  Indians  as  a  cruel 
and  heartless  race.  I  do  not  hold  with  this  opin- 
ion, but  I  am  bound  to  state  what  Whitey's 
friend  Injun  did  now.  He  grinned  —  actually 
grinned.  Whitey  gave  him  a  sad,  reproachful 
look,  and  with  his  package  of  lunch  under  his 
arm,  slouched  into  the  schoolhouse. 

It  is  needless  to  follow  Whitey  into  this  seat 
of  learning.  If  this  were  a  record  of  the  tor- 
ments and  horrors  he  underwent  during  his  boy- 
hood days,  it  might  be  well  to  describe  this 
period  at  length.  But  suffice  it  to  say  that 
Jennie  Adams,  the  teacher,  was  a  young  woman 
who,  if  given  a  little  time  to  think,  could  tell  you, 
without  using  a  paper  or  pencil,  how  much  six 
pounds  of  butter  would  cost  at  twelve  cents  a 
pound.  Also,  that  the  girl  pupils,  of  whom  there 
were  four, —  those  who  rode  the  mules  double,— 
had  a  habit  of  tittering,  also  of  leaning  over- 
close  to  each  and  making  whispered  remark  L 
about  Whitey. 

A  week  of  this  did  not  add  to  Whitey's  thirst 
for  knowledge,  which  was  not  very  strong  at 
best,  and  it  was  just  a  week  from  this  first  day 
118 


FISH-HOOKS  AND  HOOKY 

that  he  was  again  riding  toward  the  schoolhouse, 
and  something  happened.  It  was  another  bright 
morning,  and  Whitey  had  reached  a  spot  where 
the  road  branched  up  into  the  foothills  to  avoid 
a  marsh,  when  he  noticed  signs  of  excitement  in 
his  pony,  Monty.  These  signs  would  have  been 
stronger  had  the  wind  been  blowing  the  other 
way,  and  had  Monty's  nose  made  him  aware 
of  the  exact  danger  that  lurked  near.  As  it  was, 
his  ears,  which  were  much  keener  than  Whitey's, 
caught  sounds  of  some  disturbing  presence,  and 
Whitey  had  difficulty  in  keeping  him  in  the 
road. 

At  a  sharp  turn,  Whitey  and  Monty  were 
greeted  by  a  roar  that  was  deeper  than  that  of 
any  automobile  horn  you  ever  heard,  a  roar 
that  had  menace  behind  it,  and  that  came  from 
a  large  brown  bear  which  had  risen  on  its  hind 
legs  and  was  advancing  into  the  road  with  both 
front  paws  extended  wide,  as  though  with  the 
intent  of  embracing  both  Whitey  and  Monty. 

Monty  did  not  wait  for  any  guiding  rein  to 
turn  him.  He  wheeled  on  a  space  about  as  big 
as  a  cigar-box,  and  hit  the  trail  for  home,  and 
119 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

for  some  time  he  and  Whitey  gave  a  fair  imi- 
tation of  a  runaway  train  on  a  down  grade.  All 
Whitey  could  do  was  to  lie  low  on  Monty's  neck, 
digging  his  moccasins  into  Monty's  ribs,  for  fear 
he  would  change  his  mind  —  which  he  didn't. 

And  neither  Whitey  nor  Monty  knew  that 
that  roar  came  from  a  mother  bear,  and  that 
back  of  the  bear  was  a  small  cub,  with  a  round, 
funny  little  stomach,  industriously  combing  the 
bushes  for  berries,  and  regarding  life  as  one 
round  of  pleasure.  There  was  no  need  for  them 
to  know  that.  Whitey  had  had  experiences  with 
bears,  as  you  may  remember.  If  wireless  had 
been  invented,  he  might  possibly  have  been 
willing  to  use  it  as  a  means  of  introduction,  but 
in  no  way  he  could  think  of  at  the  moment  was 
he  willing  to  meet  a  bear  on  its  native  heath. 

That  settled  it.  No  school  that  day.  Couldn't 
expect  a  fellow  to  go  to  school  when  he  had  tc 
run  into  bears  on  the  trail.  What  was  an  old 
bear  doing  near  the  ranch,  anyhow?  Didn't 
seem  right.  When  Monty  had  toned  down  his 
headlong  trip  away  from  that  bear,  or  thought 
he  was  at  a  safe  distance,  Whitey  found  himself 

120 


ADVANCING  INTO  THE  ROAD  WITH  BOTH  FRONT  PAWS  EXTENDED 


FISH-HOOKS  AND  HOOKY 

near  the  river,  and  idly  turned  Monty  toward 
its  banks.  Might  as  well  take  a  little  ride.  Fel- 
low didn't  learn  much  at  that  school,  anyway. 
And  so,  after  the  ways  of  boys  and  men,  Whitey 
made  excuses  for  not  doing  what  he  didn't  want 
to  do. 

With  his  mind  somewhat  at  ease,  Monty 
ambled  along  the  shore  of  the  Yellowstone,  with 
Whitey  enjoying  the  scenery  as  much  as  his 
conscience  would  let  him,  and  his  conscience 
getting  weaker  every  minute.  And  presently, 
at  some  distance,  he  saw  a  small  huddled-up 
figure  sitting  on  the  bank.  Closer  inspection 
proved  this  figure  to  be  pink,  and  still  closer 
inspection  revealed  it  to  be  Injun.  Wondering 
what  Injun  was  doing  in  that  neighborhood, 
Whitey  approached,  and  was  surprised  to  find 
that  Injun  was  fishing. 

Knowing  that  Indians  never  fish  except 
through  necessity,  Whitey  was  puzzled.  As  he 
drew  nearer,  Injun  turned  and  regarded  him, 
betraying  no  surprise  at  Whitey's  being  there; 
at  his  not  being  in  school.  Whitey  dismounted 
and  sat  near  his  friend. 

121 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

"What  are  you  fishing  for,  Injun?"  he  asked. 

"Fish,"  Injun  replied  seriously. 

"Of  course,"  said  Whitey.  "I  mean  what  do 
you  want  to  catch  the  fish  for?" 

"Gum,"  spoke  Injun  briefly. 

"Gum?"  demanded  the  bewildered  Whitey. 
"You  can't  make  gum  out  of  fish." 

Injun  said  nothing  at  all.  Whitey  thought 
that  perhaps  he  had  a  bite,  but  he  hadn't.  He  just 
didn't  ooze  information.  It  had  to  be  dragged 
from  him.  So  Whitey  proceeded. 

"Please  explain  about  this  fishing  for  gum," 
he  said  politely. 

"Gum  him  chew,"  Injun  replied. 

"Oh,  chewing-gum!"  cried  Whitey.  A  light 
dawned  on  him,  for  he  knew  that  Injun  was 
very  fond  of  chewing-gum.  So  was  Whitey. 
"You  trade  the  fish  for  gum." 

"No  trade;  sell  'em;  get  much  gum." 

This  was  the  first  commercial  instinct  that 
Whitey  had  ever  known  Injun  to  show,  and  he 
looked  at  him  admiringly.  At  that  moment 
Injun  got  a  bite.  He  did  not  betray  any  of  the 
excitement  a  white  boy  does  on  such  an  occasion. 

122 


FISH-HOOKS  AND  HOOKY 

He  solemnly  pulled  in  his  line,  and  when  it  was 
almost  in,  a  good-sized  pickerel  squirmed  off 
the  hook,  and  flopped  back  into  the  water.  And 
now  Injun  showed  no  disappointment.  He 
seriously  examined  the  worm  on  his  hook,  to  see 
that  it  was  intact,  then  cast  the  line  into  the 
river  again. 

Whitey  watched  him  in  silence.  Injun  got 
another  bite,  and  the  same  operation  was  re- 
peated, except  that  the  fish  that  escaped  was 
larger  than  the  other.  Injun  patiently  rebaited 
his  hook.  "Biggest  one  him  get  away,"  he 
grunted. 

Whitey  knew  something  about  fishermen  and 
the  stories  they  tell:  that  it  is  always  the  biggesi 
fish  that  escaped.  But  in  this  case  it  seemed  to 
be  true,  for  strung  on  a  willow  twig  was  Injun's 
catch,  about  six  small  pickerel. 

"How  long  you  been  fishing  here?"  Whitey 
asked. 

"  Since  sunup." 

"And  that's  all  you've  caught?"  Whitey  in- 
dicated the  string  of  fish. 

"Urn." 

123 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

"Let's  see  your  hook,"  Whitey  said,  as 
another  pickerel  was  pulled  almost  to  shore,  and 
then  flopped  back  into  its  native  element. 

When  Injun  displayed  the  hook,  Whitey  saw 
that  it  was  one  of  the  little  ones  they  had  used 
inT  fastening  the  tick-tack  to  Wong's  window. 
"Why,  this  is  too  small  for  pickerel,"  exclaimed 
Whitey.  "It's  for  perch.  You  ought  to  have  a 
bigger  one." 

"Yes,  me  know,"  said  Injun. 

Again  Whitey  was  impressed  by  Injun's 
patience.  There  he  had  sat  for  several  hours, 
watching  those  big  fish  return  to  the  Yellow- 
stone and  safety.  Whitey  knew  that  he  never 
could  have  stood  it.  Finally  he  questioned  him. 

"K  you  knew  that  the  big  fish  would  fall  off 
that  hook,  and  that  they  are  just  waiting  to  be 
caught,  how  could  you  stand  just  getting  the 
little  ones?",  Whitey  said.  ^'They're  not  worth 
much." 

/*Mebbe  after  time  big  fish  him  swallow 
hook,  then  me  get  him,"  answered  Injun,  which 
was  a  pretty  long  speech  for  him,  and  explained 
many  matters. 


FISH-HOOKS  AND  HOOKY 

As  Whitey  sat  watching  Injun  waiting  for  an 
accommodating  and  greedy  pickerel  to  come 
along,  a  great  idea  was  born  to  him  —  a  fishing 
partnership  between  him  and  Injun. 

And  that  was  why,  if  Whitey  could  have  been 
closely  watched,  one  would  have  seen  him  sneak- 
ing around  the  ranch  barn  every  morning,  just 
before  it  was  time  to  start  for  school,  and  slipping 
things  into  his  pockets.  And  on  examination 
these  things  would  have  been  seen  to  be  fishing- 
lines  and  hooks  of  the  proper  size  for  pickerel. 

And  that  is  why,  for  about  four  days  a  week, 
Injun  and  Whitey  sat  dangling  their  feet  in  the 
Yellowstone  River,  catching  large  flocks  of 
pickerel,  which  they  peddled  to  neighboring 
ranchmen  at  two  bits  a  half-dozen.  And  that  is 
why  they  were  always  well  supplied  with  chewing- 
gum. 

Now,  it  is  not  my  purpose  to  defend  or  excuse 
this  conduct  of  Injun  and  Whitey's,  but  simply 
to  record  it.  If  you  are  looking  for  a  moral  in 
this  story,  you  may  find  it  in  what  followed 
on  the  heels  of  this  fishing  partnership.  In  the 
first  place,  no  boy  without  money  may  .display 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

things  which  cost  money  without  attracting 
attention,  followed  by  suspicion.  Gum  costs 
money,  and  the  chewing  of  it  is  a  very  apparent 
action. 

Soon  Bill  Jordan  was  saying  to  Jim  Walker: 
"Where  d'you  s'pose  them  kids  get  all  that 
gum?" 

Jim  was  answering,  "Down  t'  th'  Junction." 

"But  they  ain't  got  no  money,"  Bill  was  ob- 
jecting. 

Then  Buck  Higgins  was  sauntering  up  and 
remarking,  "Say,  Sid  Griggs,  over  t'  th'  Dia- 
mond Dagger,  was  tellin'  me,  t'day,  how  Injun 
and  Whitey  sells  him  herds  o'  fine  pick'rul  at 
six  bits  a  throw." 

"Why  don't  they  bring  some  home?  When 
do  they  ketch  them  pick'rul?  That's  where 
they  get  th'  cash!"  Bill  Jordan  was  exclaiming, 
in  a  rather  disconnected  manner,  thus  showing 
that  the  putting  of  two  and  two  together  is  fatal 
to  wrongdoers. 

Then  Bill  called  on  Miss  Jennie  Adams,  at  her 
temple  of  learning,  and  found  that  Whitey  had 
spent  only  a  week  there,  and  confirmed  his  — 
126 


FISH-HOOKS  AND  HOOKY 

Bill's  —  suspicion  that  school  hours  had  become 
fishing  hours. 

Bill  Jordan  was  big  and  strong  enough  to  lick 
Whitey,  but  he  felt  that  he  had  not  the  moral 
right  to  do  so,  and  he  was  greatly  puzzled.  He 
realized  that,  as  you  may  lead  a  horse  to  the 
water  but  you  can't  make  him  drink,  so  you 
may  lead  a  boy  to  school  but  you  can't  make 
him  study.  Most  of  Bill's  own  school  hours  had 
been  spent  in  hunting,  as  he  didn't  care  for 
fishing.  Thus,  if  Bill  lectured  Whitey,  the  boy 
could  throw  Bill's  own  ignorance  of  book-learning 
in  his  face. 

The  more  Bill  thought  over  this  matter  the 
more  undecided  he  became,  and  finally  he 
saddled  his  horse  and  rode  down  to  the  Junction, 
and  resorted  to  what  was,  for  him,  a  very  un- 
usual action.  So  later  in  the  day  Mr.  Sherwood 
received  the  following  telegram,  in  his  New 
York  office: 

Whitey  wont  learn  nothin.  Ketches  pickrul. 
What  will  I  do? 

WILLIAM  JORDAN 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

You  will  notice  that  this  message  took  ex- 
actly ten  words  —  which  was  evidence  of  more 
thinking  on  Bill's  part. 

Bill  waited  patiently  at  the  Junction,  and 
late  that  night  received  the  following  answer : 

Put  the  boy  at  such  a  hard  job  that  he  will  be 
glad  to  resume  his  studies. 

SHERWOOD 


CHAPTER  X 
A  HARD  JOB 

THE  next  day,  as  Whitey  —  all  unconscious  of 
the  plot  against  him  —  returned  from  the  affairs 
of  his  fishing  partnership,  he  was  met  by  Bill 
Jordan. 

"Whitey,"  said  Bill,  "I  got  somepV  for  you 
t'  do,  an'  I'm  'fraid  it'll  take  you  out  o'  school  for 
a  while." 

Whitey  looked  sharply  at  Bill  for  a  trace  of 
suspicion  or  sarcasm,  but  Bill's  face  was  as  blank 
as  a  Chinaman's. 

"'S  very  important,"  Bill  continued,  "an*  I 
chink  your  father 'd  consider  me  justified  in 
takin'  you  away  fr'm  your  lessons."  Having 
studied  this  matter  all  out  beforehand,  Bill  was 
using  larger  words  than  usual.  "I  got  a  lettei 
for  t'  be  delivered  t'  Dan  Brayton,  up  at  th' 
T  Up  and  Down  Ranch,  'bout  some  business 
c'  your  father's.  Really,  I  ought  t'  go  m'self,  an' 
see  Dan  pussonally,  but  I  ain  't  got  time.  Can't 
spare  any  o'  th'  men,  'count  o*  th'  round- 
129 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

up's  comin'  on.  Don't  see  nothin'  t'  do,  except  t' 
make  you  th'  messenger." 

Whitey  was  delighted.  "Where  is  the  T  Up 
and  Down?"  he  asked. 

'"Bout  a  hunderd  an'  fifteen  miles  no'thwest 
o'  here,  t'other  side  o'  Zumbro  Creek,"  Bill  an- 
swered. 

"Good!"  cried  Whitey.  "I'll  take  Injun, 
and—  " 

"Wouldn't  do  that,"  Bill  objected.  "Dan 
hates  Injuns,  an'  he'd  sure  be  rambunctious 
'bout  this  one." 

"All  right,"  Whitey  agreed,  rather  reluctantly. 
"If  I  start  early  enough,  Monty  and  I  ought  to 
make  it  some  time  to-morrow  night." 

If  Whitey  had  been  noticing  Bill's  face  at  that 
moment,  he  would  have  seen  a  rather  peculiar 
smile  cross  it,  but  he  wasn't.  Nor  did  he  suspect 
anything  the  next  morning,  when  he  met  Bill  at 
the  corral  before  dawn. 

"That  Monty  hoss  o'  yours  seems  sort  o'  lame, 
this  mornin',"  said  Bill.  "Reck'n  one  o'  th'  other 
cayuses    must    'a'    kicked    him,    or    somepV 
Dunno  as  he  c'd  stand  th'  trip." 
130 


A  HARD  JOB 


And,  sure  enough,  Monty  limped  slightly  as 
he  moved  about  the  corral.  Whitey  did  not 
know  that  a  hair  tied  around  a  horse's  leg,  just 
above  the  hock,  will  make  the  animal  limp, 
and  will  not  be  noticeable,  nor  that  as  a 
part  of  Bill's  scheme  Monty  had  been  so 
treated.  So  Whitey  was  worried  about  his  pony, 
but  Bill  assured  him  that  Monty  would  prob- 
ably be  all  right  in  a  day  or  so  —  when  it 
was  too  late. 

"Pshaw,  I'll  have  to  ride  a  strange  horse!" 
Whitey  said  dejectedly. 

"I  bin  thinkin',"  said  Bill,  "what  with  our 
bein'  kinda  short  on  stock,  just  now,  an*  th' 
boys  needin'  all  their  strings  for  th'  round-up, 
an*  everything  it  might  be  a  good  scheme  for 
you  t'  go  in  th'  stage.  Be  sort  of  a  change  for 
you.  You  c'd  ride  as  far  as  Cal  Smith's  ranch, 
an'  he'd  lend  you  a  hoss  t'  take  you  on  t'  th'  T 
Up  and  Down." 

Again  the  unsuspecting  Whitey  was  delighted, 

as  every  Western  boy  was,  in  those  days,  to 

ride    on    the   old-fashioned   but    swift-moving 

stage-coaches  that  were  still  the  main  means  of 

131 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

communication  between  many  places   in   that 
sparsely  settled  country. 

At  six  o'clock  Whitey  was  waiting  in  the 
road,  with  Bill,  and  when  the  coach  appeared, 
and  was  halted,  was  hoisted  up  to  a  seat  beside 
the  driver;  a  seat  of  honor  that  did  not  happen 
to  be  occupied  that  trip.  Messenger  boys  and 
telephones  were  unknown  on  the  Frontier  at 
that  time.  Even  the  telegraph  lines  were 
limited  to  the  course  of  the  big  railroad  that 
pointed  its  nose  from  St.  Paul  to  the  Pacific. 
So  Whitey,  with  the  important  letter  sewed  in- 
side his  shirt,  thereby  became  the  first  mes- 
senger boy  known  to  the  history  of  the  West. 

And  he  surely  enjoyed  seeing  the  driver  wield 
his  long  whip,  and  capably  handle  the  six  reins 
that  controlled  the  six  spirited  horses.  And 
going  down  grade  Whitey  would  have  to  put 
his  arm  around  the  driver's  middle,  because  his 
legs  were  not  quite  long  enough  to  reach  the 
dashboard,  and  if  the  body  of  that  old-fashbned 
stage-coach  had  hit  him  in  the  middle  of  the 
back,  Whitey  would  have  beaten  the  horses 
down  the  hilL 

132 


A  HARD  JOB 


Everything  went  well  for  ninety  miles,  and  at 
a  certain  trail  the  driver  pulled  up  and  said, 
"Well,  son,  here's  where  you  have  t'  wear  out 
your  moccasins.  There's  your  trail,  bearing  off 
t'  th'  right.  Follow  it  for  twenty-five  miles,  an* 
you'll  be  where  you  want  t'  go." 

"Twenty-five  miles!"  gasped  Whitey.  "Do 
you  mean  to  say  that  I  have  to  walk  twenty-five 
miles?" 

"Sure,"  said  the  driver.  "If  you  keep  goin* 
good  an'  lively  th'  rest  o'  th'  day,  you  c'n  hit  th' 
Zumbro  before  dark,  an'  just  one  mile  this  side 
o'  th'  Zumbro  is  Cal  Smith's  ranch.  He'll  take 
care  o'  you  overnight,  an'  you  c'n  go  t'  th'  T 
Up  and  Down  in  th'  mornin'." 

"B  — but  I  didn't  know  I  had  to  walk," 
Whitey  protested. 

"Reck'n  you  do,  unless  you  c'n  ketch  a  jack- 
rabbit  an'  ride  him,"  the  driver  answered. 

"I  thought  the  ranch  was  right  on  the  line  of 
the  stage  road,"  Whitey  said  weakly.  "Bill 
Jordan  didn't  say  anything  about  walking." 

"Well,  Bill's  a  funny  cuss,  an'  mebbe  he  kept 
this  for  you  as  a  sort  o'  s'prise,"  the  driver 
133 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

allowed,  with  a  grin.  "Good-bye.  Giddap!" 
And  the  coach  whirled  away,  in  a  cloud  of  dust, 
leaving  Whitey  standing  in  the  lonely  road, 
looking  off  over  the  lonelier  prairie. 

But  nothing  was  to  be  gained  by  that,  and  he 
started  along  the  trail,  which  really  was  a  little- 
used  wagon  track.  And  as  he  walked  he  thought 
about  Bill  Jordan,  and  his  conclusions  were  none 
too  pleasant.  He  did  not  suspect  that  this  was 
part  of  a  deep-laid  plot  of  Bill's.  Rather  he 
thought  that,  as  the  driver  had  said,  this  was 
one  of  Bill's  jokes,  and  he  could  fancy  Bill  and 
Jim  Walker  and  Buck  Higgins  and  the  others 
chuckling  over  the  trick,  and  Whitey  planned 
how  he  would  get  even  with  Bill  when  he  re- 
turned. He  little  guessed  how  long  it  would  be 
before  that  return,  and  how  many  events  would 
intervene  to  drive  thoughts  of  revenge  from  his 
mind. 

And  Whitey  trudged  on  and  on,  and  the 
walking  was  very  bad,  for  there  had  been  a  suc- 
cession of  heavy  rains,  almost  cloud-bursts,  that 
had  made  the  road  soggy.  And  for  several  miles 
the  trail  led  through  rocky  hills,  and  there  the 
134 


A  HARD  JOB 


walking  was  even  worse,  for  the  rains  had  washed 
the  earth  out  of  the  trails,  leaving  a  series  of 
sharp  stones  that  certainly  were  hard  on  moc- 
casin-clad feet.  And  the  harder  the  trail  was, 
the  harder  became  Whitey's  opinion  of  Bill 
Jordan  and  his  jokes. 

Darkness  comes  late  in  that  northern  country, 
and  it  was  dusk  when  Whitey  had  another  un- 
pleasant surprise,  for  he  came  to  the  Zumbro, 
and  a  sight  met  his  eyes  that  would  have  made 
almost  any  grown-up  stand  back  and  look  a  lot. 
She  wasn't  a  creek,  she  was  a  river;  no,  she 
wasn't  a  river,  she  was  a  rearing,  roaring,  raging 
torrent,  owing  to  the  rains  and  floods  that  had 
filled  the  banks  to  overflowing. 

And  this  wasn't  the  worst  of  it.  Where  was 
Cal  Smith's  ranch,  a  mile  this  side  of  the  Zum- 
bro? The  driver  had  told  him  about  that,  so  it 
couldn't  have  been  another  of  Bill  Jordan's 
jokes.  Whitey  looked  back,  and  saw  a  line  of 
hills,  and  realized  that  the  ranch  lay  behind 
them,  and  that  he  had  passed  it.  And  sorrow- 
fully he  retraced  his  steps. 

They  say  that  the  last  mile  of  a  long  walk  n 
135 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

the  worst,  and  it  certainly  proved  so  in  this  case, 
for  it  was  dark  when  Whitey  turned  off  into  a 
side  road  and  the  lights  of  Cal  Smith's  ranch 
house  met  his  view. 

There  may  have  been  more  welcome  sights 
to  Whitey  than; the  yellow  gleams  of  those  win- 
dow lights,  but  he  could  not  remember  them, 
as  he  limped  toward  the  house.  Even  the  sharp 
barking  of  a  dog,  that  was  stilled  by  a  call  from 
an  opening  door,  sounded  good  to  him.  And 
when  he  was  in  the  house,  where  he  was  wel- 
comed by  big,  genial  Cal  Smith,  and  seated  at  a 
table  in  the  kitchen,  devouring  ham  and  eggs 
and  home-made  bread  and  pie,  and  drinking 
hot  coffee,  provided  by  good-natured,  motherly 
Mrs.  Cal  —  why,  it  was  almost  worth  the  tramp 
to  meet  such  a  reception  at  the  end  of  it. 

And  friendly  and  hospitable  as  were  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Cal,  there  were  other  and  greater  attrac- 
tions in  that  household  for  Whitey.  There  were 
five  young  Smiths, — five  boys,  three  older  and 
two  younger  than,  Whitey, —  and  not  a  girl  in 
sight.  In  that  company  Whitey  forgot  all  about 
being  tired.  A  new  boy,  that  knew  stories,  was 

136 


A  HARD  JOB 


meat  and  drink  to  them  —  and  five  boys,  that 
knew  stories  that  were  new  to  Whitey,  were 
meat  and  drink  to  him. 

Their  sleeping  quarters  were  the  garret,  and 
while  a  lantern  swung  from  a  beam,  and  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Cal  were  asleep,  and  the  boys  were 
supposed  to  be  asleep,  those  kids  just  wrote  and 
rewrote  a  history  of  the  West  that  would  make 
all  the  tenderfeet  in  the  world  stay  at  home,  and 
forever  hold  down  the  population  of  the  Frontier. 

And  the  smallest  boy,  named  Cal  after  his 
father,  had  a  hard  time  keeping  awake,  but  was 
bound  to  do  it  if  it  killed  him;  and  the  biggest 
boy,  named  Abe  after  Abraham  Lincoln,  prob- 
ably knew  more  about  wild  animals  than  any 
boy  in  the  world;  and  the  smallest  boy  never  had 
killed  any  animals,  except  a  stray  mole  or  two, 
that  happened  to  get  out  in  the  daytime,  by 
mistake,  but  he  was  goin  to  —  and  —  well, 
there  was  so  much  to  be  told,  and  it  had  to  be 
told  so  fast,  that  no  shorthand  writer  that  ever 
lived  could  have  put  it  all  down. 

But  finally,  no  matter  how  interesting  the 
company,  sleep  will  come  to  healthy  boys,  and 
137 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

just  before  that  time  came,  and  could  not  be 
put  off  any  longer,  they  happened  to  be  talking 
about  dreams.  Abe  said  that  if  you  would  tie 
a  rope  around  your  neck,  and  tie  it  to  a  beam, 
just  before  you  went  to  sleep,  you  would  sure 
dream  of  a  hanging.  And,  of  course,  Whitey  had 
to  try  it. 

He  tied  the  rope  around  his  neck,  he  tied  the 
other  end  around  a  beam,  and  he  went  to  sleep. 
There  were  six  boys  in  that  bed,  and  there  was  a 
whole  lot  of  crowding,  and  Whitey  was  sleeping 
on  the  outside.  And  he  didn't  have  to  dream 
about  any  hanging,  because  he  came  so  near  the 
real  thing.  I  don't  have  to  tell  you  how  it  hap- 
pened. Bill  Jordan's  letter  came  mighty  near 
not  being  delivered.  However,  all  ended  happily, 
and  save  for  rubbing  that  part  of  his  anatomy 
where  he  wore  a  collar  after  he  was  grown  up, 
Whitey  was  all  right. 


CHAPTER  XI 
THE  T  UP  AND  DOWN 

THE  next  day  Cal  Smith  said  that  a  joke  was  all 
very  well,  but  twenty-five  miles  was  far  enough 
to  carry  it,  and  he  staked  Whitey  to  a  horse  to 
make  the  rest  of  the  trip  with,  Whitey  to  return 
the  horse  on  his  way  back.  When  they  reached 
Zumbro  Creek  it  hadn't  gone  down  a  bit,  except 
to  go  down  stream,  and  it  was  doing  that  like  the 
dickens.  It  certainly  was  a  very  bad-tempered- 
looking  creek,  but  Cal  Smith  wasn't  afraid  of  it. 

He  had  brought  along  all  his  sons,  and  a 
couple  of  ranch  hands,  and  instructed  them  to 
stand  by  with  ropes,  while  he  took  Whitey 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  up  the  creek,  and  the 
two  of  them  plunged  in.  Cal  Smith  was  not 
going  to  let  any  kid  try  to  swim  a  horse  across 
that  creek  by  himself. 

It  was  quite  a  sight  to  see  all  those  Smith 

boys  standing  in  a  line  on  the  bank.  With  the 

biggest  one,  Abe,  at  one  end,  and  the  smallest 

one,  Cal,  at  the  other,  and  the  rest  of  them 

139 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

standing  according  to  their  sizes,  they  looked 
like  a  flight  of  steps.  And  little  Cal  was  too 
small  to  be  of  any  use,  but  he  didn't  know  that, 
and  some  one  had  given  him  the  end  of  a  lariat 
to  hold,  and  he  clutched  it,  and  looked  as 
anxious  and  important  as  any  one. 

All  went  well  with  Cal  Smith  and  Whitey 
until  they  got  to  about  the  middle  of  the  creek, 
and  then,  zowie!  the  full  force  of  the  current 
hit  them,  and  they  went  down  the  stream  as 
though  they  were  a  couple  of  feathers.  But  the 
little  range  ponies  were  just  as  game  as  Cal 
Smith,  and  they  kept  fighting  that  stream  as 
though  they  were  humans,  and  kept  edging  over 
and  edging  over  until  they  finally  got  a  footing 
and  scrambled  out  on  the  other  bank,  a  full 
quarter  of  a  mile  below  the  ford.  So  Zumbro 
Creek  had  beat  them  a  whole  half-mile  down 
stream,  on  that  trip  across. 

"So  long,  son,"  said  Cal  Smith.  "You've 
only  got  about  twelve  miles  to  go  to  reach  the 
T  Up  and  Down,  and  you'd  better  stay  there  a 
couple  of  days  before  you  start  back,  to  give  this 
creek  a  chance  to  learn  how  to  behave  itself." 
140 


THE  T  UP  AND  DOWN 


Then  Cal  Smith  rode  back  a  half-mile  up  the 
stream  to  make  the  return  trip,  and  Whitey 
watched,  and  the  flight  of  steps  of  Smith  boys 
watched.  And  when  Cal  landed  safely,  and 
Whitey  waved  at  them  all  from  a  distance,  as 
he  rode  away,  he  felt,  as  I  think  you  will  feel, 
that  it  was  no  wonder  Western  men  had  the 
reputation  of  being  big-hearted,  when  a  man 
like  Cal  Smith  would  take  all  that  trouble  for  a 
boy  he  never  had  seen  before. 

The  T  Up  and  Down  was  a  rather  small 
ranch,  boasting  not  over  a  thousand  head  of 
cattle,  but  its  manager,  Dan  Brayton,  proved 
to  be  a  very  large  man.  That  is,  he  was  large 
around,  for  he  was  not  tall.  He  must  have 
weighed  nearly  three  hundred  pounds,  and 
when  Whitey  first  saw  him,  he  at  once  won- 
dered how  he  ever  got  on  a  horse,  and  then 
Whitey  reflected  that  it  sure  would  take  a 
mighty  strong  horse  to  buck  with  Dan  on  it. 

When  Whitey  arrived,  Dan  was  in  what  he 

called  his  office,  a  small  room  all  fitted  up  with 

saddles  and  bridles,  and  boots  and  spurs,  and 

belts  and  guns,  and  —  oh,  yes;  there  was  a 

141 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

little  desk  almost  hidden  in  the  litter,  and  Dan 
Brayton  was  seated  at  it,  his  face  all  wrinkled 
in  the  effort  to  solve  some  figures  written  on  a 
piece  of  paper. 

Dan  received  Whitey  cordially,  but  seemed 
surprised  to  hear  that  he  was  the  bearer  of  an 
important  letter  from  Bill  Jordan.  He  held  the 
letter  in  his  hand  and  looked  at  it  critically,  as 
people  do  who  are  not  in  the  habit  of  receiving 
many  letters,  and  he  asked: 

"How  is  Silent?" 

"Silent?"  inquired  the  puzzled  Whitey. 

"Sure,  Silent,"  replied  Dan.  "That's  what 
we  allus  called  Bill  Jordan  back  in  Wyomin'." 

"Why,  he  talks  all  the  time,"  said  Whitey. 

"That's  th'  reason  we  called  him  Silent,"  Dan 
answered,  chuckling. 

Whitey  did  not  know  that  Bill  Jordan  hated 
this  nickname,  and  had  done  his  best  to  leave  it 
behind  when  he  moved  from  Wyoming,  and 
that  when  he  came  to  Montana  he  only  got  rid 
of  it  by  licking  several  cowpunchers  who  tried  ta 
tack  it  onto  him  there.  But  he  answered  that 
Bill  was  very  well.  When  Dan  had  looked  the 
142 


THE  T  UP  AND  DOWN 


letter  up  and  down,  and  behind  and  before,  and 
over  and  back,  he  finally  opened  it  and  read  it. 

But  before  he  had  finished  it,  he  was  attacked 
by  a  violent  fit  of  coughing  and  choking,  and 
became  almost  purple  in  the  face.  Whitey 
feared  that  he  might  be  about  to  have  a  fit  of 
apoplexy,  which  he  had  heard  that  stout  people 
are  subject  to,  but  Dan  gasped  out  something 
about  going  to  get  a  drink,  and  hurried  from  the 
room,  and  was  gone  a  long  time. 

Even  then  Whitey  did  not  suspect  anything. 
He  was  so  pleased  with  the  journey  —  barring 
the  twenty-five-mile  walk — and  with  the  strange 
experiences  he  was  having,  that  his  mind  had  no 
room  in  which  to  harbor  suspicious  thoughts  of 
Bill  Jordan.  When  Dan  returned,  he  seemed 
better,  though  his  face  was  a  trifle  red.  He  apol- 
ogized to  Whitey,  saying  that  he  was  subject 
to  such  "spells."  Then  he  inquired  how  Whitey 
got  along  on  his  trip  to  the  T  Up  and  Down. 

Whitey  described  his  journey,  and  Dan  seemed 
much  concerned  about  Whitey's  having  had  to 
walk  the  twenty-five  miles,  and  couldn't  under- 
stand how  Bill  Jordan  had  made  the  mistake  of 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

supposing  that  Cal  Smith's  ranch  was  on  the 
stage  road.  And  when  Whitey  told  him  that  the 
driver  thought  Bill  was  playing  a  joke  on  him, 
Dan  shook  his  head  solemnly,  and  seemed  almost 
about  to  have  another  spell,  and  allowed  that 
Bill  suttinly  wouldn't  play  no  joke  o'  that  kind. 

Whitey  had  thought  that  most  fat  people  were 
jolly,  and  was  surprised  to  find  Dan  Brayton  so 
serious.  But  he  thought  maybe  it  was  the  letter 
that  made  him  so,  for  when  he  looked  at  it,  he 
wrinkled  up  his  forehead,  and  coughed '  behind 
his  hand,  and  seemed  to  be  considering  it  very 
weightily.  At  lasf  he  spoke. 

"This  here  letter's  very  important,"  Dan 
said,  "an'  I  don't  wonder  Bill  wouldn't  trust 
none  o'  them  fool  punchers  with  it.  An'  'course, 
Bill  didn't  c'nfide  its  insides  t'  you,  knowin'  how 
important  your  father  takes  all  them  important 
matters  o'  his." 

Whitey  wondered  if  Dan  didn't  know  any 
other  long  word  besides  "important,"  but  he 
said  nothing,  while  Dan  thought  and  thought 
about  the  letter,  and  finally  spoke  again. 

"I  bin  thinkin',"  he  said,  "that  I'll  have  t' 
144 


THE  T  UP  AND  DOWN 


consider  this  here  matter  't  some  length,  'fore 
decidin'  on  no  course  o'  action.  You  don't 
mind  stayin'  overnight,  do  you?" 

Whitey  replied  that  it  had  been  his  intention 
to  remain  at  the  T  Up  and  Down  for  a  day  or 
two,  if  it  was  agreeable  to  Dan,  so  that  matter 
was  settled. 

"TV  ain't  much  t'  see  'round  here,  th' 
country  bein'  kind  o'  flat  an'  uninterestin',  an' 
I  reck'n,  bein'  rather  tired,  you  wouldn't  mind 
just  settin'  here  an'  readin',  while  I  go  an'  c'n- 
sult  with  my  foreman,"  Dan  said,  and  went 
away  and  presently  returned  with  a  big  thick 
book,  which  was  very  heavy,  and  gave  it  to 
Whitey.  "This  here's  my  fav'rut  book,"  Dan 
continued,  "an'  is  very  absorbin'.  Set  in  my 
chair  there,  an'  read  y'self  t'  death,  'f  you  feel 
like  it,"  and  Dan  took  himself  off. 

So  Whitey  sat  in  Dan's' chair,  which  happened 
to  be  the  only  chair  in  the  room,  and  was  ex- 
tremely uncomfortable,  being  all  sagged  down 
on  one  side,  on  account  of  Dan's  weight.  The 
book  provtd  to  be  a  several-years-old  copy 
of  the  Congressional  Record,  containing  the 
145 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

speeches  made  before  Congress  at  that  time,  and 
in  addition  to  being  heavy,  it  was  more  than 
dull.  Whitey  couldn't  understand  how  Dan 
found  it  "absorbin'."  Dan  certainly  must  be  a 
serious-minded  person,  despite  his  fat.  And  yet, 
from  over  near  the  bunk  house,  Whitey  heard 
loud  laughter  coming  from  several  men.  He  re- 
flected hopefully  that  perhaps  the  hands  were 
not  so  solemn  as  Dan  Brayton. 

But  this  hope  was  ill-founded,  for  later,  when 
Dan  took  Whitey  to  the  bunk  house,  he  found 
all  the  punchers  who  were  there  were  reading 
serious-looking  books.  Whitey  supposed  that 
"like  master,  like  man,"  they  must  be  taking 
after  Dan  Brayton.  He  did  not  know  that  some 
of  those  cowboys  couldn't  read  at  all,  and  if  he 
had  looked  close  enough  he  might  have  seen 
that  some  of  those  who  could  read  were  holding 
their  books  upside  down. 

Whitey's  stay  at  the  T  Up  and  Down  turned 
out  to  be  as  dull  as  the  Congressional  Record. 
There  was  an  old-fashioned  melodeon  in  the 
living-rooin  of  the  ranch  house,  and  it  was  very 
much  out  of  tune.  One  of  the  punchers  could 

146 


THE  T  UP  AND  DOWN 


play,  and  he  played,  and  the  others  sang  hymns, 
and  sang  them  very  badly,  and  when  they  had 
finished  the  hymns,  they  started  on  doleful 
songs  like  "The  Cowboy's  Lament,"  and  "Bury 
Me  On  the  Lone  Perare-e-e." 

These  seemed  to  be  great  favorites  with  the 
punchers,  and  Whitey  wondered  at  it.  They 
were  getting  less  popular  with  him  every  minute. 
Afterwards  he  learned  what  may  have  made 
them  please  the  men;  that  almost  all  the  songs 
sung  on  the  ranges  are  written  by  the  cowboys 
themselves,  and  they  may  be  dismal  because  of 
being  composed  during  lonely  night  rides. 

One  puncher  called  "Little"  Thompson,  who 
was  high  and  narrow  in  build  —  shaped  some- 
thing like  a  lath,  with  a  face  something  like  an 
undertaker's  —  sang  at  length.  First  a  doleful 
ditty  that  went  like  this: 

"Oh!  my  name  it  is  J.  W.  Wright,  I  came  from  Ten- 
nessee. 

There  was  a  killin*  in  th'  mountains,  th'  sheriff  got  his, 
ye  see. 

I  left  my  wife  an'  babies,  them  kids  I  loved  so  well, 

An'  I'll  find  a  grave  on  th'  lone  prairee,       ^    • 

Oh!  pardners,  ain't  it  hell?" 

H7 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

After  this  had  dragged  out  its  weary  length 
he  got  an  encore,  and  responded  with  this  gem: 

"We  came  up  over  th'  long  trail, 
Three  thousand  cattle  strong. 
Ned  Saunders  needed  a  hair  cut, 
Fer  his  hair  was  too  darned  long. 

"Oh,  th'  night  was  dark  an'  stormee, 
An'  the  Injuns  round  did  yell, 
So  we  herded  into  a  canyon, 
An'  th'  sons-o'-guns  come  like  hell. 

"Ned  lost  his  hair,  he  didn't  care, 
Fer  he  had  lots  t'  spare, 
Oh,  te-tumity  turn-turn,"  —  and  so  on. 

There  were  at  least  a  hundred  verses  of  this 
last,  each  verse  more  deadly  dull  than  the  one 
before,  and  Little  was  very  conscientious;  he 
didn't  slight  any  of  them.  Long  before  he  was 
through,  Whitey  envied  the  fate  of  Ned  Saunders. 
But  the  evening  was  only  mortal,  it  had  to  end, 
and  at  last  it  did. 

Whitey  must  have  shown  signs  of  wear,  for 
as  they  parted  to  go  to  bed,  Dan  Brayton  said 
to  him,  "Cheer  up,  it  may  rain  to-morrow," 
and  it  did! 


THE  T  UP  AND  DOWN 


Now,  if  there  was  anything  more  depressing 
than  the  T  Up  and  Down  when  the  weather  was 
fine,  it  was  that  same  ranch  when  it  rained.  How 
Whitey  got  through  that  awful  day  he  never 
really  knew.  The  most  cheerful  thing  that 
happened  was  during  dinner,  when  Dan  Brayton 
told  a  long  yarn  about  a  brother  of  his,  who  had 
small-pox  and  fleas  at  one  and  the  same  time, 
and,  as  Dan  said,  "was  more  t'  be  pitied  than 
scorned."  And  this  might  have  been  a  joke, 
though  no  one  laughed.  But  at  last  evening 
came  with  another  programme  of  dirges,  then 
night  with  its  blessed  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XII 
FELIX  THE  FAITHLESS 

To  Whitey's  intense  relief  the  following  morning 
was  clear,  and  he  realized,  with  delight,  that  at 
last  he  would  be  able  to  get  away  from  the  T  Up 
and  Down.  He  had  never  been  so  tired  of  a 
place  in  his  life.  It  was  almost  worse  than 
school. 

After  breakfast  Dan  Brayton  took  Whitey 
into  his  office,  and  while  Whitey  sat  on  a  saddle, 
Dan  slouched  in  his  saggy  chair  and  talked 
business. 

"I'm  sure  glad  you  bin  able  t'  stay  a  coupPa 
days,"  he  said.  "It  musta  bin  a  pleasant  change 
for  you,  an'  it's  give  me  a  chanst  t'  think  over 
this  here  important  business  o'  your  father's. 
I've  writ  a  letter  for  you  t'  deliver,  t'  my  friend 
Walt  Lampson,  o'  the  Star  Circle,  down  so'east 
o'  here  a  piece,  for  you  t'  take  t'  him.  Y'  see,  we 
can't  fill  all  your  dad's  r'quir'munts,  so  I'm 
callin'  on  Walt  t'  sort  o'  help  out  with  thj 
balance." 

150 


FELIX  THE  FAITHLESS 


Dan  looked  impressively  at  Whitey,  who 
didn't  understand  much  of  what  he  was  talking 
about,  and  didn't  care  about  anything  he  was 
to  do,  he  was  so  glad  to  get  away  from  the  T  Up 
and  Down. 

"This'll  take  you  out  o'  your  way  a  bit," 
Dan  went  on,  "but  you  won't  have  t'  cross  th' 
Zumbro,  an'  I'll  send  back  that  hoss  you  bor- 
rowed from  Cal  Smith,  by  one  o'  the  hands. 
An'  I'll  lend  you  one  o'  my  nags  t'  take  you  as  far 
as  Wilier  Bend,  where  you  c'n  get  another  mount. 
Little  Thompson'll  go  that  far  with  you,  an'  from 
there  on  th'  goin's  straight." 

So,  on  the  borrowed  horse,  and  with  the  letter 
sewed  inside  his  shirt,  Whitey  set  forth  with 
Little  Thompson,  the  tall,  thin,  solemn  cowboy 
who  had  sung  the  dismal  songs.  And  glad  as  he 
was  to  leave,  Whitey  regretted  that  he  did  not 
have  a  more  cheerful  companion.  For  Little's 
idea  of  entertainment  was  to  talk  about  funerals. 

He  seemed  to  have  enjoyed  going  to  them 
greatly,  and  described  each  individual  one  at 
length.  Never  before  had  Whitey  known  what 
a  subject  for  conversation  funerals  could  make. 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

Little  dwelled  on  the  burial  of  each  one  of  his 
immediate  family,  then  passed  on  to  his  dis- 
tant relatives,  then  to  his  friends,  then  to  his 
acquaintances.  Whitey's  nerves  were  pretty 
steady,  as  you  know,  but  after  about  four  hours 
of  this,  Little  got  him  so  fidgety  that  he  thought 
he  would  fall  off  the  horse.  Finally  he  thought 
Little  had  changed  the  subject,  and  breathed 
a  sigh  of  relief. 

"Drink's  a  awful  evil,"  Little  announced 
solemnly.  "They  was  a  friend  o'  mine,  one  o' 
them  two-handed  drinkers,  what  was  down  to 
Bismarck,  an'  got  in  th'  condition  what  liquor 
perduces,  an*  this  friend  o'  mine  was  standin' 
on  th'  sidewalk,  an*  'long  comes  a  funeral." 

"Here  it  is  again!"  muttered  Whitey,  with  a 
groan. 

"An*  this  friend  o'  mine,"  Little  continued, 
"sees  this  here  funeral,  an'  bein'  in  th'  c'ndition 
he's  in,  he  thinks  it  is  a  percession,  an'  he  waves 
his  hat  an'  cheers,  an*  he  gets  urrested." 

Little  looked  sternly  at  Whitey  as  though  to 
drive  the  moral  of  this  story  home,  and  to 
warn  him  never  to  drink  and  cheer  a  funeral 
152 


FELIX  THE  FAITHLESS 


But  at  this  moment  "Wilier  Bend"  hove  in 
sight,  and  the  talk  turned  to  other  channels. 

The  Bend  was  a  relief  in  more  ways  than  one, 
for  it  was  a  beautiful  spot  on  the  sharp  turn  of  a 
narrow  creek,  whose  banks  were  overhung  by 
weeping-willows,  the  green  of  their  leaves  made 
vivid  by  the  recent  rain.  One  Chet  Morgan,  a 
nester,  lived  here.  Nesters  —  or  small  farmers 
—  were  not  usually  popular  in  the  early  days  of 
the  Western  ranges,  as  they  had  a  way  of  fencing 
in  the  springs,  or  water-holes,  to  provide  irri- 
gation for  their  crops.  But  there  was  plenty  of 
water  in  that  country,  so  Chet  was  welcome  to 
all  of  it  he  wanted. 

While  Whitey  sat  in  the  doorway  of  the  small 
shack,  Little  had  a  long  talk  with  Chet,  near  the 
stable,  and  Chet  seemed  to  be  nodding  his  head 
hi  agreement  to  everything  the  puncher  said. 
They  then  rested  awhile  and  had  dinner  with  the 
nester,  and  after  that  Little  rode  away,  leading 
Whitey's  borrowed  horse.  There  seemed  no  reason 
for  Whitey's  staying  any  longer,  and  Chet  again 
went  to  the  stable,  and  returned  leading  what  is 
called  a  jack,  "jack"  being  short  for  "jackass." 
153 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

"Here's  your  mount,  son,"  said  Chet,  "an* 
if  you'll  keep  t'th'  — " 

"Am  I  to  ride  that?"  Whitey  demanded, 
pointing  at  the  jack. 

"Sure,"  Chet  replied.  "Both  o'  my  hosses 
has  glanders,  but  this  jack's  all  right.  I've  rid 
him  off  en.  You'll  find  him  gentle  an'  perseverin' 
an'  good  comp'ny.  Mebbe  he  does  go  a  mite 
faster  toward  home  than  away  from  it,  but  he 
allus  gets  somewhere.  His  name's  Felix,  after  a 
uncle  o'  mine  what  — " 

Followed  a  personal  history  of  Chet's  uncle, 
to  which  Whitey  did  not  listen.  He  was  thinking 
of  the  figure  he  would  cut  arriving  at  the  Star 
Circle  on  Felix,  and  hoped  he  would  get  there  at 
night.  Chet  returned  to  the  subject  of  the  jack, 
to  whose  back  a  blanket  was  strapped. 

"I'm  sorry  my  saddles  won't  fit  him,"  said 
Chet,  "but  you'll  find  sittin'  on  this  blanket  as 
comf  tbul  as  your  mother's  rockin'-chair,  an' 
you've  only  sixty  mile  t'  go/' 

"Sixty  miles!"  gasped  Whitey. 

"Thassall.  Now  you  keep  t'  that  road,  with 
them  hills  t'  your  right,  an'  when  you  get  t'  — " 


FELIX  THE  FAITHLESS 


Chet  described  at  length  Whitey's  route  to 
the  Star  Circle  Ranch.  Sadly  Whitey  mounted 
Felix  and  set  forth.  Again  the  road  proved  little 
but  a  grass-grown  wagon  track  through  the 
rolling  plain  edged  by  the  gray  hills.  And  soon 
it  seemed  to  Whitey  that  Chet  had  been  over- 
enthusiastic  when  he  said  that  Felix's  back  was 
easy  as  a  rocking-chair.  At  first  it  might  have 
seemed  so,  but  after  awhile  it  felt  more  like  a 
rail  fence. 

And  Whitey  discovered  peculiar  traits  in 
Felix.  He  constantly  wanted  to  turn  to  the  right, 
and  had  to  be  pulled  back,  and  he  was  cold- 
jawed.  And  once  in  a  while  he  would  stop  short, 
and  when  Whitey  urged  him  on,  would  start  in 
a  despondent  way,  with  his  head  down  and  his 
ears  flopping,  and  would  have  to  be  kicked  or 
whipped  to  be  urged  to  do  anything  faster  than 
a  walk.  It  was  all  very  discouraging. 

Perhaps  you  never  have  seen  a  horse  or  a  jack 
attached  to  the  end  of  the  pole  of  one  of  those  old 
stone  grinding-mills,  around  which  he  marches 
and  marches,  while  the  grain  is  ground  between 
the  whirling  stones  in  the  center.  That  was 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  'TO  THE  RESCUE 

Felix's  regular  job,  which  accounted  for  many 
of  his  peculiarities  —  but  Whitey  never  knew 
about  it 

Among  the  interesting  things  about  animals 
is  their  sense  of  time.  Many  of  them  seem  to  be 
as  accurate  as  clocks  and  some  of  them  as  useful 
as  calendars.  One  dog,  in  particular,  comes  to 
my  mind,  whom  his  master  used  to  bathe  on 
Sundays.  And  when  this  custom  was  firmly 
fixed  in  his  —  the  pup's  —  mind,  he  would  go 
away  on  Friday  night  and  stay  away  till  Monday 
morning.  He  got  to  be  the  dirtiest  dog  in  town. 

And  the  easiest  time  for  an  animal  to  tell  is 
the  time  to  stop  work  and  eat.  Felix  was  very 
clever  in  that  regard.  At  about  six  o'clock 
the  unsuspecting  Whitey  dismounted  to  stretch 
himself  and  ease  the  strain  of  jouncing  up  and 
down  on  that  rocking-chair  that  had  come  to  feel 
like  a  ridge-pole.  Naturally  his  eyes  turned  away 
from  Felix,  to  whom  he  was  beginning  to  take  a 
personal  dislike. 

Whitey's  eyes  were  brought  back  with  a  jerk 
by  the  soft  thud  of  little  hoofs  on  the  prairie,  for 
Felix  waa  beating  it  back  toward  Wilier  Bend, 
156 


FELIX  THE  FAITHLESS 


with  a  speed  that  astonished  his  late  rider. 
Whitey  started  after  him  instinctively,  but  he 
soon  realized  that  that  was  useless,  and  he  stood 
and  watched,  while  Felix  became  a  blurred  spot 
in  the  distance.  Whitey  didn't  know  that  it  was 
time  to  quit  for  the  day  at  the  grinding-mill  — 
and.  it  would  not  have  done  him  any  good  if  he 


But  he  knew  that  it  was  lonely  on  the  prairie 
And  that  he  had  come  only  about  a  third  of  the 
way  to  the  Star  Circle  Ranch.  So  he  supposed 
he  must  be  in  for  another  walk,  for  he  wouldn't 
go  back  to  Wilier  Bend  for  that  Felix,  not  if  he 
died  for  it.  He  started  determinedly  on  his 
course.  He  might  meet  some  one  who  would 
give  him  a  lift.  Anyway,  it  was  going  to  be  a 
moonlight  night,  and  wouldn't  be  so  bad;  and 
walking  wasn't  much  slower  than  riding  Felix, 
and  was  far  more  comfortable. 

So  Whitey  trudged  and  trudged  until  dusk 
came.  Then  he  sat  down  and  ate  some  of  the 
food  he  had  brought  with  him.  Then  darkness 
came,  and  a  big  moon  poked  its  head  up  over 
the  eastern  horizon,  and  rode  up  into  the  sky, 
157 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

where  it  began  to  get  smaller  and  more  silvery, 
and  to  flood  the  prairie  with  its  light.  And 
Whitey  started,  and  it  wasn't  so  bad  to  tread 
the  soft  road,  and  to  hear  the  hum  of  the  in- 
sects, and  to  feel  the  gentle  night  breeze  against 
his  face,  and  it  would  be  something  to  tell  about 
afterwards. 

Whitey  did  not  know  what  time  it  was  when 
he  sat  down  on  a  hummock  to  rest.  And  he  must 
have  fallen  asleep,  for  after  a  while,  out  of  some 
vague  country  that  seemed  like  the  mountains 
near  the  Bar  O  Ranch,  a  great  giant  came 
rushing  down  toward  him.  And  the  giant  had 
a  head  like  Felix's,  but  on  top  of  it  was  a  big 
yellow  light  —  like  those  lamps  miners  wear  on 
their  heads  —  that  grew  brighter  and  brighter, 
and  the  giant  roared  louder  and  louder,  until  he 
woke  Whitey  up. 

Whitey  rubbed  his  eyes,  then  pinched  himself 
to  make  sure  he  was  awake,  for  the  roaring  still 
sounded  in  his  ears,  and  he  looked  around  and 
saw  two  little  red  and  green  lights  disappearing 
in  the  distance.  And  then  he  understood  that  he 
must  have  sat  down  near  the  track  of  the  rail- 

158 


FELIX  THE  FAITHLESS 


road,  for  those  lights  were  on  the  end  of  a  train, 
and  the  big  yellow  light  on  the  giant's  head 
must  have  been  the  engine's  headlight. 

Well,  the  road  followed  the  railway  for  a  dis- 
tance, and  it  couldn't  be  such  an  awful  way  to 
the  Star  Circle  Ranch.  Should  he  go  on,  or 
should  he  sleep  some  more?  He  might  catch 
cold  from  the  dew,  but  he  could  put  on  his 
slicker,  and  —  he  was  awfully  tired. 

He  yawned,  he  nodded,  he  was  sound  asleep 
before  he  knew  it. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
A  FOOL'S  ERRAND 

WHEN  Whitey  arrived  at  the  Star  Circle  Ranch, 
at  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning,  he  was  still 
a  very  tired  boy.  The  Star  Circle  was  a  much 
larger  ranch  than  the  T  Up  and  Down,  with  a 
much  smaller  manager,  for  Walt  Lampson,  who 
was  also  part  owner  of  the  place,  was  not  much 
taller  than  Whitey,  and  he  was  serious-looking, 
too  —  didn't  look  at  all  like  Cal  Brayton. 

After  Whitey  had  delivered  his  letter  to  Walt 
Lampson  and  had  eaten  some  breakfast,  which 
the  cook  had  rustled  for  him,  he  began  to  tell 
Walt  of  his  adventures  in  coming  from  the  T  Up 
and  Down,  and  he  was  surprised  when  Walt 
roared  with  laughter.  This  attracted  some  of 
the  cowpunchers,  and  they  roared,  too.  Whitey 
had  to  repeat  the  part  about  Felix  going  home. 
It  seemed  strange  to  Whitey  that  Cal  Brayton 
who  looked  so  merry  should  be  so  solemn,  and 
Walt  Lampson  who  looked  so  solemn  should  be 
BO  merry. 

After  sleeping  for  about  twelve  hours  at  a 
160 


A  FOOL'S  ERRAND 


stretch  for  three  nights,  Whitey  might  be  said 
to  be  a  trifle  rested  and  able  to  look  around  and 
take  an  interest  in  his  surroundings.  And  he 
began  to  discover  things  about  the  character  of 
the  men  on  the  Star  Circle  Ranch.  They  were 
given  to  loud  laughter,  but  he  noticed  that  most 
of  this  laughter  was  at  the  misfortunes  of  others. 
And  they  were  always  playing  jokes  on  one 
another  and  cutting  up  tricks;  but  beneath  this 
playfulness  there  seemed  to  be  a  sort  of  fierceness 
—  something  like  the  ferocity  that  lurks  beneath 
the  play  of  a  tiger. 

He  had  plenty  of  time  for  these  reflections  and 
feelings,  as  Walt  Lampson  did  not  seem  to  be  in 
a  hurry  about  attending  to  Mr.  Sherwood's  bus- 
iness, and  Whitey  caught  Walt  and  the  men  look- 
ing at  him  in  a  peculiar  way,  when  they  thought 
he  was  not  noticing  them.  On  the  third  day  after 
his  arrival  —  an  unpleasant,  lowering  day,  for 
that  time  of  the  year,  with  a  cold  wind  —  Walt 
spoke  thus  to  Whitey: 

"I'm  havin'  some  stock  cut  out,  t'day,  t*  send 
to  your  dad.    How'd  ye  like  t'  go  out  on  th' 
range  an*  take  a  look  at  it?" 
161 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

"Is  that  the  business  Bill  sent  me  on?"  asked 
Whitey. 

"Partly,"  Walt  answered.  "What  d'ye  say? 
You  might  as  well  do  that  as  loaf  around  here." 

"I'll  go,"  said  Whitey. 

"All  right.  You  c'n  go  with  Hank  Dawes. 
He's  startin'  pretty  soon,  an'  he'll  get  you  a 
hoss." 

It  was  some  relief  to  Whitey  to  be  galloping 
over  the  prairie,  though  Hank  Dawes  was  not 
the  man  he  would  have  chosen  as  a  companion. 
Hank's  cruelty  to  his  horse  turned  Whitey 
against  him.  Whitey  had  seen  many  animals 
treated  unfeelingly,  but  he  never  could  under- 
stand how  a  man  could  enjoy  torturing  one,  as 
Hank  seemed  to.  Finally,  after  an  outburst  on 
Hank's  part  that  included  quirting  and  spur- 
ring and  swearing,  Whitey  could  hold  in  no 
longer. 

"If  you'd  treat  your  horse  better  he'd  behave 
better,"  he  said  angrily.  "You  ought  to  know 
that." 

For  a  moment  Hank  looked  blankly  at  Whitey , 
then  burst  out  laughing.  He  could  not  under- 
162 


A  FOOL'S  ERRAND 


stand  any  one's  having  consideration  for  a  horse, 
and  the  boy's  anger  struck  him  as  being  funny. 
Whitey  turned  from  him  in  disgust,  baffled  by 
such  a  lack  of  understanding  and  feeling. 

The  writer  knows  many  men  in  the  West,  and, 
having  been  born  and  raised  there,  naturally 
thinks  Westerners  the  finest  men  in  the  world, 
But  for  him  to  deny  that  there  are  good  and  bad 
among  them  would  be  idle.  As  idle  to  deny  that 
some  of  them  were  cruel  to  their  horses.  Among 
these  the  Indians  and  Mexicans  bear  the  worst 
reputations  with  those  who  are  supposed  to 
know.  But,  for  the  sake  of  truth,  the  author 
wishes  to  say  that  he  found  the  Indians  uni- 
formly kind  to  their  horses.  And  as  for  the 
Mexicans,  not  only  were  they  always  kind  and 
considerate  to  their  mounts,  but  they  were 
among  the  greatest  horsemen  in  the  world. 

Whitey  and  Hank  rode  for  a  time  in  a  silence 
broken  only  by  Hank's  occasional  profane  mut- 
terings  at  his  patient  horse,  then  Whitey  de- 
scried two  objects  moving  toward  him  from  the 
west.  At  first  he  mistook  them  for  two  horsemen, 
then  discovered  that  one  horse  was  being  led, 

163 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

then  that  the  rider  was  Injun,  and  the  led  horse 
was  Monty.  With  a  whoop  of  astonishment  and 
joy  Whitey  galloped  toward  them. 

"Hello,  Injun,  what's  all  this?"  yelled  Whitey, 
when  within  speaking  distance,  so  glad  that  he 
was  almost  ready  to  embrace  his  friend. 

Injun,  as  usual,  showed  no  surprise,  but  there 
was  a  gleam  of  welcome  in  his  eye.  "Monty, 
him  stolen,"  he  said.  "Me  find  him." 

Whitey  wormed  Injun's  story  from  him,  in 
jerky  sentences,  while  Hank  Dawes  rode  up,  and 
looked  on,  and  listened  indifferently.  It  seemed 
that  two  days  before,  at  the  Bar  O  Ranch, 
Monty  had  "turned  up  missing."  Injun,  who 
knew  Monty's  hoofprints  as  one  friend  would 
know  the  color  of  another's  eyes,  had  taken  it 
upon  himself  to  follow  them.  They  had  led  him 
a  long  chase,  ending  at  a  night  camp,  many 
miles  west  of  the  spot  where  he  and  Whitey  met. 

Injun  had  tied  his  pony  some  distance  from 
the  camp.  This  that  he  might  not  whinney  a 
greeting  to  Monty.  Then  Injun  had  crept  up  on 
the  camper-thief,  and  waited  patiently  until 
"him  snore  heap."  Then  Injun  had  quietly  eat- 

164 


A  FOOL'S  ERRAND 


tracted  Monty  from  that  camp,  and  silently 
faded  away  into  the  night.  He  was  now  on  his 
way  to  the  Bar  O. 

"Didn't  you  see  who  the  thief  was?"  asked 
Whitey. 

"Him  fire  out.  Me  'fraid  make  light,"  said 
Injun,  unknowingly  giving  a  hint  of  the  time  he 
must  have  visited  at  the  camp. 

Monty  was  showing  his  joy  at  meeting 
Whitey,  who  was  patting  the  pony's  neck. 

"This  isn't  my  saddle!"  Whitey  cried  sud- 
denly. 

"Him  Bill  Jordan's  saddle,"  said  Injun,  grin- 
ning. It  seemed  to  appeal  to  Injun's  peculiar 
sense  of  humor  that  the  clever  Mr.  Jordan 
should  have  had  his  saddle  stolen. 

"Did  Bill  suspect  any  one?"  inquired  Whitey. 

"Guess  heap,  can't  tell,"  Injun  replied. 
"Henry  Dorgan,  him  leave  Monday,"  Injun 
added  darkly,  plainly  willing  to  connect  the  man 
he  disliked  with  the  theft. 

Whitey  hardly  thought  that  Dorgan  would 
risk  a  return  to  the  ranch  for  Monty,  though  he 
always  had  admired  the  pony.  If  Dorgan  had 

165 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

stolen  Monty,  it  was  pleasant  to  think  that  he 
was  now  wending  his  way  across  the  plains  on 
foot. 

Another  idea  occurred  to  Whitey.  "Why 
don't  you  stay  with  me,  Injun?"  he  demanded. 
"Then  we  can  ride  back  to  the  Bar  O  to- 
gether." 

Injun  grinned  his  agreement  to  the  idea,  not 
saying  that  he  had  thought  of  it  first.  So  Whitey 
transferred  his  person  to  Monty,  and,  leading 
the  Star  Circle  horse,  he  and  Injun  and  Hank 
Dawes  continued  on  their  way.  And  Mr.  Dawes 
was  allowed  to  ride  ahead  while  Whitey  told 
Injun  what  had  befallen  him  since  leaving  the 
Bar  O  Ranch,  and  of  his  present  errand. 

Injun  cast  a  knowing  eye  at  the  sky.  "No  cut 
out  cows  t'day,"  he  said.  "Heap  storm  comin'." 

"What's  the  difference?"  Whitey  asked. 
"Maybe  we  can  ride  night  herd.  It'll  be  great 
fun." 

Riding  night  herd  was  not  Injun's  idea  of  fun, 
but  he  was  so  glad  to  be  with  Whitey  again  that 
he  made  no  objection.  He  seldom  made  ob- 
jections, anyway.  It  occurred  to  neither  of  the 
166 


A  FOOL'S  ERRAND 


boys  that  after  Injun's  long  pursuit  of  the  horse- 
thief,  it  would  be  a  hardship  for  him  to  ride  all 
that  day  and  possibly  that  night.  And,  of  course, 
Injun  wasn't  hungry.  He  had  not  been  fool 
enough  to  start  out  on  a  long  chase  without  pro- 
viding himself  with  food. 

So  the  boys  rode  on.  Even  had  they  known 
into  what  they  were  riding  it  is  unlikely  that 
they  would  have  turned  back.  Had  Walt  Lamp- 
son  known  of  the  coming  peril  he  would  not  have 
been  at  the  Star  Circle,  laughingly  telling  his 
men  of  sending  Whitey  on  a  wild-goose  chase, 
that  would  end  with  his  spending  a  night  in  the 
saddle,  facing  a  blinding  storm.  Lampson  and 
all  the  men  he  could  summon  would  have  been 
heavily  armed,  dashing  at  full  speed  toward  the 
threatened  herd. 

Buck  Milton,  the  range  boss,  made  a  better  im- 
pression on  Whitey  than  any  other  man  he  had 
seen  at  the  Star  Circle.  He  was  tall,  blond,  sin- 
ewy. He  was  thoughtful  and  serious,  and  not  ill- 
natured.  He  looked  like  a  man  who  could  take 
a  joke  which  he  might  not  understand  any  too 
well,  and  put  up  a  fight  in  which  he  would  prove 

167 


[NJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

a  deadly  factor.  In  short,  he  was  a  character  you 
would  look  at  twice,  and  Whitey  was  surprised 
to  find  him  in  the  Star  Circle  outfit. 

Hank  Dawes  handed  Buck  a  letter,  which 
Whitey  took  to  be  instructions  from  Walt  Lamp- 
son,  and  Buck  read  it,  talked  to  Hank  a  moment, 
and  when  Buck  rode  over  to  where  Whitey 
waited  with  Injun,  he  was  smiling. 

"There  won't  be  no  cuttin'  out  t'day,"  he 
said.  "Too  late,  for  one  thing,  and  for  another 
it's  goin'  t'  storm.  You  boys  like  t'  stay  with  th* 
herd  t 'night?  Be  kinda  rough." 

"Why,  yes.  We'd  like  it  immensely.  It'll  be 
a  sort  of  adventure,"  Whitey  replied. 

"Well,  some  folks  might  call  it  that,"  said 
Buck.  "You  might  stick  along  with  me."  And 
he  and  the  boys  rode  off  together. 

You  must  know  of  the  old,  old  enmity  that 
existed  between  the  cowmen  and  the  sheepmen 
of  those  early  days  of  the  Western  ranges.  In 
the  neighborhood  in  which  Whitey  found  him- 
self, this  enmity  was  particularly  bitter,  for 
more  and  more  had  the  sheep  been  encroaching 
on  the  plains  that  the  cattlemen  regarded  as 
1 68 


A  FOOL'S  ERRAND 


their  own.  And  the  reason  for  this  enmity: 
once  the  white-coated  flocks  had  passed  over 
the  land  it  was  dead  as  a  feeding-ground  for 
cattle. 

So  little  wonder  that  the  cattlemen  thought 
of  the  sheep  as  pests  or  vermin,  and  considered 
their  owners  as  deadly  foes,  and  in  turn  were 
regarded  as  foes  by  the  sheepmen.  The  cattle- 
men were  in  possession  of  most  of  the  ranges, 
and  possession  was  nine  points  of  the  law  in  a 
country  in  which  there  was  little  law,  except 
that  of  the  gun. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  STAMPEDE 

ALONG  the  banks  of  the  Yellowstone,  where  it 
wended  its  snakelike  course  to  the  Missouri, 
wandered  the  massive  herds  of  the  Star  Circle, 
and  around  them  rode  the  cow  waddies,  the  few 
outriders,  keeping  their  charges  from  straying, 
and  ever  watchful  for  the  dreaded  sheep,  which 
had  of  late  sprung  up  like  buffalo  grass,  and,  as 
Buck  Milton  expressed  it,  "in  a  country  that 
God  had  made  for  cows." 

And  over  the  range  in  like  peace  grazed  the 
enemy;  white-fleeced,  soft  and  downy  as  doves, 
and  as  harmless  and  innocent.  Of  all  weapons 
ever  used  in  warfare  the  strangest,  these  living 
emblems  of  innocence.  It  was  a  warfare  fought 
far  from  the  public  eye.  The  men  who  fought 
the  cattle  were  little  like  those  bull-fighters  oi 
Spain  who  responded  to  the  applause  of  thou- 
sands. They  acted  in  the  dark,  if  they  could, 
and  for  hire,  and  yet  they  may  have  had  hearts 
—  but  those  who  hired  them  surely  had  none. 
170 


THE  STAMPEDE 


And  all  unconscious  of  coming  danger  the  boys 
rode  with  the  few  herders,  or  by  themselves, 
near  the  wandering  cattle.  The  storm  had  held 
off  while  twilight  faded,  but  now  the  sky  was 
cloud-curtained,  and  the  night  fell  inky  black 
and  silent  save  for  sounds  from  the  herd.  The 
soft  thudding  of  hoofs,  the  occasional  low- 
voiced  note,  possibly  of  a  cow  to  its  young, 
seemed  to  blend  into  a  murmur,  strange  and 
fascinating  to  Whitey,  commonplace  and  tire- 
some to  the  men  of  the  range. 

Then  the  storm  began  to  send  signals  of  its 
approach  from  air  and  sky.  First  the  hushing 
of  the  wind,  then  the  pale  glares  from  the  dis- 
tant sky  where  the  earth's  edge  joined  it,  then 
the  rumble  of  thunder,  growing  in  volume  with 
the  brighter,  green  flashes  of  the  lightning  —  all 
familiar  enough  to  Whitey,  but  now  giving  him 
a  thrill  because  felt  in  strange  surroundings.  The 
nervous  stirring  of  the  mass  of  beasts  near  by 
added  to  the  boy's  thrill,  for  a  coming  storm  was 
never  to  be  taken  calmly  by  the  hulking,  helpless 
brutes. 

And  when  the  rush  of  wind  and  the  crashing 
171 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

of  the  coming  tempest  sounded,  and  the  herders 
were  renewing  their  watchfulness,  another  storm 
was  breeding  that  they  did  not  dream  of.  For 
over  beyond,  in  a  gully,  the  sheepmen  were 
gathered.  And  each  man  carried  a  white  gar- 
ment, like  those  you  may  have  seen  pictured  as 
worn  by  the  old  raiders  of  the  South  —  the  Ku- 
Klux  Klan.  They  were  waiting  only  for  the 
lightning  to  become  blinding,  the  thunder  to  be- 
come deafening. 

And  when  the  electrical  storm  was  at  its 
height,  you  will  know  what  happened  when 
those  white-clad  figures  went  among  the  thou- 
sands of  range-bred  beasts,  guarded  by  a  pitiful 
handful  of  men.  For  range  cattle  are  accustomed 
to  a  man  only  when  he  is  mounted;  then  he  is  a 
part  of  his  horse.  It  is  dangerous  for  him  to  go 
among  them  on  foot;  then  he  is  a  strange  animal. 
Many  a  cowboy  has  dismounted,  rescued  a  steer 
from  the  mire  —  and  had  to  run  for  his  life. 
Thus  were  those  white-clad  figures  doubly  mon- 
strous and  terrifying  to  the  herd. 

You  may  have  thought  that  the  cowboy  wears 
his  revolver  for  protection  against  his  human 
172 


THE  STAMPEDE 


enemies,  but  it  is  rather  for  a  protection  of  the 
cattle  against  themselves  in  that  strange  panic 
known  as  a  "stampede."  Whitey  and  Injun, 
riding  near  the  edge  of  the  herd,  and  bowing 
against  the  fury  of  the  storm,  did  not  need  Buck 
Milton's  hoarse  shouts  of  warning  to  make  them 
swing  aside.  They  were  helpless  to  aid  in  divert- 
ing the  mass  of  maddened  animals  that  swung 
toward  them,  and  galloping  their  horses  to  a 
point  of  safety,  they  turned  in  their  saddles  and 
viewed  the  strange  sight. 

Lighted  by  the  almost  continuous  flashes  of 
the  lightning,  the  bellowing,  thundering  herd 
crashed  by.  .  .  .  Far  behind  it,  and  in  safety, 
were  the  white  figures  of  the  men  who  had 
caused  the  panic,  sneaking  off  into  the  night. 
They  had  been  seen  by  the  Star  Circle  riders, 
but  there  was  no  time  to  think  of  them  now. 
At  the  head  of  the  herd,  Whitey  could  see  two 
men,  their  horses  set  at  a  mad  run.  Buck 
Milton  was  one,  and  the  other  a  dare-devil 
young  fellow  named  Tom,  who  was  Buck's 
closest  friend. 

And  as  Buck  and  Tom  rode,  Whitey  could  sec 
173 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

them  firing  their  guns  almost  in  the  faces  of  the 
foremost  maddened  steers.  They  were  trying  to 
divert  the  leaders,  and  thus  turn  the  herd  until 
it  would  circle  in  its  course,  and  finally  the 
entire  mass  of  beasts  would  be  running  round 
and  round,  in  a  course  known  as  "milling."  And 
there  Whitey  learned  the  real  use  the  cowboy  has 
for  his  gun. 

What  was  going  on  beyond,  Whitey  could  not 
see,  and  he  could  hear  nothing  above  the  uproar 
of  the  storm,  and  the  clamor  of  the  stampede, 
except  the  faint  cracking  of  the  guns  of  Tom 
and  Buck.  As  Whitey  held  the  almost  fear- 
maddened  Monty  in  check,  the  wild-eyed  steers, 
with  lowered  heads  and  panting  sides,  sped  by. 
At  their  head  Whitey  saw  Tom  swing  nearer 
toward  the  leaders,  then  he  saw  Tom  no  more. 
There  were  two  dangers  to  be  feared  in  that 
mad  race;  if  a  steer  fell,  the  others  would  trip 
over  it,  and  many  of  them  would  die;  if  a  man 
were  caught  in  the  rushing  mass,  it  meant  sure 
death. 

Morning  came,  with  the  sun  graying  the  low 
clouds,  from  which  fell  a  cold  drizzle;  a  setting 
174 


THE  STAMPEDE 


drear  enough  for  the  scene  the  boys  were  to  wit- 
ness. A  handful  of  gaunt  men,  sad  but  deter- 
mined, their  spent,  drooping  horses  near  by, 
stood  facing  a  shallow  grave  scooped  out  of  the 
prairie.  Near  it  lay  a  blanket-covered  figure  that 
the  dreaded  stampede  had  crushed  into  a  shape 
of  which  Whitey  feared  to  think. 

As  the  cowboys  lowered  the  shape  into  the 
grave,  Buck  Milton  turned  his  head  away  for  a 
moment.  Then  he  said  simply,  "Tom  was  my 
pardner  for  nine  years."  And  again,  after  a 
pause,  "And  who's  goin'  t*  tell  his  gal  over  on 
the  Little  Divide?" 

There  seemed  no  need  for  words  just  then,  for 
after  their  grief  for  their  friend  the  men's  faces 
showed  the  turn  of  thought  to  his  murderers, 
the  sheepmen.  Whitey  never  had  seen  the  in- 
tent to  kill  come  into  men's  faces  before.  It  was 
grim,  but  not  repulsive,  for  in  a  way  there  was 
justice  in  it.  And  poor  Tom,  who  yesterday  had 
been  less  than  a  name  to  Whitey,  had  now  be- 
come the  central  figure  in  a  tragedy. 

But  no  one  could  have  told  what  Injun 
thought.  He,  who  came  of  a  race  that  held 
175 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

vengeance  above  most  things,  looked  on,  seem- 
ingly unmoved. 

Followed  busy  days  on  the  Star  Circle,  during 
which  Walt  Lampson  probably  forgot  the  exis- 
tence of  Whitey  and  Injun.  It  was  doubtful  to 
the  boys  that  he  even  noticed  them  when  they 
rode  back  to  the  ranch  house,  after  the  funeral 
of  Buck's  friend  Tom.  Whatever  thoughts  of 
revenge  were  cherished  by  Walt  and  Buck  had 
to  be  held  in  check  while  the  stampeded  herds 
were  rounded  up  from  the  many-mile  radius  of 
prairie  over  which  they  had  strayed. 

To  do  this  the  entire  force  of  the  Star  Circle 
was  needed.  Divided  into  parties  the  men  rode 
north,  east,  south,  and  west  for  a  distance  of 
about  twenty  miles.  Then  they  trailed  round 
and  round,  in  a  great,  narrowing  circle  that  took 
in  that  wide  radius,  and  as  the  cattle  were  met, 
in  bunches  or  small  herds,  they  were  gathered 
and  driven  into  a  common  center  until  they 
formed  one  great  herd. 

Whitey  and  Injun  managed  to  go  with  Buck 
Milton's  men,  as  Whitey  liked  Buck  better  than 
any  of  the  other  punchers,  but  the  death  of  Tom 


THE  STAMPEDE 


had  left  Buck  in  a  gloomy  mood,  and  he  spoke 
but  little,  either  to  the  men  or  to  the  boys.  The 
others  were  loud  in  their  oaths  and  threats  of 
vengeance;  Buck  was  silent  —  and  somehow, 
Whitey  could  not  help  feeling  that  Buck  was  the 
most  dangerous  enemy  the  sheepmen  would  have 
to  deal  with. 

This  round-up  lasted  a  full  week.  During  it 
Walt  Lampson  had  found  time  to  consider  his 
course  of  action  against  the  stampeders  of  his 
herd.  So  when  Whitey  and  Injun  returned, 
they  found  that  the  Star  Circle  was  to  be 
involved  in  one  of  the  scourges  of  the  time  — 
a  range  war. 

If  you  had  been  there  would  you  have  wanted 
to  stay  and  see  the  thing  out?  The  answer  is  so 
simple  that  you  know  what  Wliitey  and  Injun 
wanted  to  do.  But  Whitey  knew  that  hardened 
as  Walt  Lampson  was,  he  would  not  allow 
the  boys  to  accompany  the  coming  expedition 
against  the  sheepmen,  so  Injun  and  Whitey  did 
what  you  probably  would  have  done,  and  what 
Br'er  Rabbit  did  —  they  lay  low.  And  Walt 
either  forgot  to  send  them  home,  or  thought  that 
177 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

they  would  stay  at  the  Star  Circle  while  the  war 
was  on. 

For  two  days  after  the  round-up  nothing  was 
done  at  the  ranch,  beyond  the  oiling  of  guns,  and 
consultations  among  the  men.  Walt  Lampson 
seemed  to  be  waiting  for  something.  On  the 
third  night  there  was  a  meeting  in  the  ranch- 
house  living-room.  A  meeting  which  Whitey  and 
Injun  attended  unseen,  by  the  simple  method  of 
hiding.  It  may  have  been  wrong  to  listen,  but  it 
was  worse  to  die,  and  Whitey  felt  that  he  surely 
would  expire  if  he  didn't  know  what  was  going 
on.  Injun  had  no  scruples  at  all. 

A  traveler  might  have  thought  that  all  trails 
led  to  the  Star  Circle  Ranch,  that  gloomy  night, 
for  from  every  point  of  the  compass  came  riders, 
alone,  by  twos,  and  by  threes.  Desperate,  hard 
men,  who  had  used  their  bodily  strength  to 
conquer  the  elements  and  to  build  up  their 
herds,  as  mine-owners  use  machinery  to  crush 
the  gold  out  of  the  ore.  For  this  war  of  the  sheep 
against  the  cattle  was  a  common  war,  and  it  was 
to  be  fought  to  a  finish  in  that  country. 

So  that  was  what  Walt  was  waiting  for, 
178 


THE  STAMPEDE 


thought  Whitey  as  he  looked  into  the  living- 
room  from  a  crack  in  the  office  door,  held 
slightly  ajar.  Had  Whitey  been  in  a  criminal 
court  during  the  last  appeal  of  opposing  counsel, 
he  would  have  seen  in  the  jury  box  no  more 
thoughtful,  set,  and  determined  faces  than 
those  assembled  in  that  ranch-house  room. 

The  decision  this  court  reached  was :  to  catch 
the  culprits  and  hang  them;  to  drive  their  sheep 
over  the  hills  into  the  deepest  canyons  to  die  by 
thousands;  to  hunt  out  the  hiding  owners,  and 
let  Colt  guns  be  both  judge  and  jury.  Merciless 
and  hard  it  seems,  doesn't  it?  But  those  were 
merciless  and  hard  days,  when  "only  the  strong 
survived." 

"There's  just  one  man  I  ever  knowed  who 
could  do  this  work  right,"  Walt  Lampson  said. 
"The  greatest  two-handed  man  with  a  gun  that 
ever  was  born,  an'  a  fool  jury  sent  him  to  the 
pen,  five  years  ago,  for  brandin'  a  few  calves." 

"You  mean  Mart  Cooley,"  said  another 
ranchman.  "There  was  only  one  of  him.  But  he 
done  two  years  at  Deer  Lodge,  an'  nobody's 
ever  seen  him  since." 

179 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

"Guess  again,"  Walt  replied.  "I  heard  o'  him. 
He's  been  down  in  the  Chinook  Country.  An1 
what's  more  I've  got  word  o'  Mart,  an*  he's 
comin'  here  t'night." 

Walt's  words  caused  a  sensation,  and  while  it 
is  subsiding  I  may  as  well  explain  that  in  those 
frontier  days  there  was  a  vast  stretch  of  mesa  or 
prairie  known  as  the  Chinook  Country,  because 
of  the  unseasonable,  warm,  and  soothing  winds 
that  blew  there.  You  may  have  read  Bill 
Jordan's  tale  about  these  winds,  in  the  first 
Injun  and  Whitey  story.  They  would  melt  the 
snow,  and  cause  the  cowmen  to  start  out  their 
feeding  herds,  only  to  be  caught  by  the  northers, 
that  brought  the  bitter,  perishing  cold,  and  killed 
the  stock  by  thousands.  On  account  of  this 
uncertain  condition  the  Chinook  Country  was 
avoided  in  the  early  days,  save  by  those  who 
located  there  for  reasons  —  which  no  one  was 
ever  known  to  question.  And  in  this  desolate 
place  Walt  Lampson  had  heard  of  Mart  Cooley, 
and  from  there  he  had  lured  him  to  the  Star 
Circle  Ranch. 

Whitey  waited,  almost  breathless,  for  the 
1 80 


THE  STAMPEDE 


thrill  that  was  to  come  at  his  first  sight  of  the 
"bad  man"  of  the  West;  the  "two-gun  man" 
who  has  long  since  passed  into  history,  but  was 
then  a  factor  of  the  troublous  times. 

And  you  might  like  to  hear  a  word  or  two 
about  the  ways  he  handled  his  gun,  for  he  had 
more  than  one  way.  But  first,  the  way  he  didn't 
handle  it.  Ordinarily,  when  you  are  shooting  at 
a  mark  with  a  pistol,  you  cock  the  weapon,  close 
one  eye,  and  gaze  along  the  barrel  with  the  other 
until  the  sight  is  in  line  with  the  mark,  and, 
holding  the  pistol  steady,  pull  the  trigger.  That 
was  what  the  gunman  didn't  do. 

He  sighted  his  weapon  much  as  you  throw  a 
stone  —  by  judging  with  his  eye.  He  filed  off 
the  sight,  so  it  wouldn't  catch  in  the  holster 
And  he  didn't  use  the  trigger  at  all.  That,  too, 
could  be  taken  off.  Let  us  say  that  he  was  using 
both  guns.  He  drew  them  from  their  holsters 
with  marvelous  speed.  As  he  did  so,  he  flipped 
back  the  hammers  with  his  thumbs,  and  allowed 
them  to  fall  on  the  cartridges,  thus  firing  the 
first  shots.  The  remaining  shots  were  fired  by 
working  the  hammers  in  the  same  way,  and  the 
181 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

actions  caused  an  up-and-down  movement  of 
the  guns.  Seems  a  funny  way  to  fire  a  revolver, 
doesn't  it?  But  it  wasn't  funny  for  the  man  who 
was  in  front  of  the  bad  man. 

He  had  another  way  of  not  leveling  the  gun  at 
all,  but  firing  from  his  hip,  the  revolver  being 
held  there,  and  the  hammer  worked  with  the 
thumb.  Another  and  very  expert  way  was  to 
fire  from  the  holster,  not  taking  the  gun  out  at 
all.  This  was  remarkably  quick  and  deadly. 

But  the  strangest  way  of  all,  that  was  some- 
times used  at  close  quarters,  was  called  "fan- 
ning." The  gun  was  held  at  the  hip,  the  first 
shot  fired  with  the  thumb-hammer  movement. 
The  gunman  spread  out  the  thumb  and  fingers 
of  his  other  hand,  and  quickly  drawing  them 
across  the  hammer,  one  after  another,  they  fired 
the  shots  with  lightning  rapidity.  You  would  be 
surprised  at  the  speed  with  which  shots  can  be 
fired  in  this  way.  Try  it  sometime  —  with  an 
empty  gun. 

Whitey,  waiting  behind  the  living-room  door, 
had  heard  in  bunk-house  talk  of  these  various 
ways  in  which  the  bad  man  proved  himself  an 
182 


THE  STAMPEDE 


artist  with  his  gun  —  had  to  prove  himself  one, 
if  he  wanted  to  remain  alive.  But  when  Mart 
Cooley,  the  most  deadly  man  of  that  kind  in  the 
West,  entered  the  living-room  and  faced  the 
ranchmen,  Whitey  did  not  get  his  thrill  —  at 
first.  For  Mart  was  not  a  very  large,  nor  a  very 
fierce-looking  person,  as  he  stood  sidewise  to 
Whitey,  and  talked  to  the  others. 

Not  often  does  crime  fail  to  leave  its  mark  on 
a  man.  The  mouth,  the  chin,  the  forehead ;  some 
feature  usually  shows  traces  of  it.  And  when 
Mart  Cooley  turned  and  Whitey  saw  his  eyes, 
he  got  his  thrill.  They  were  a  hard,  light,  steely 
gray,  and  they  looked  out  from  lowered  lids,  oh, 
so  steadily.  Months  of  brooding  in  the  prison 
had  helped  to  harden  Mart's  eyes,  that  had 
needed  no  help  in  that  way;  brooding  over 
imaginary  wrongs,  for  he  thought  his  arrest  an 
injustice.  Other  men  had  stolen  a  few  cows,  and 
got  away  with  them,  but  Mart  was  made  to 
suffer,  and  came  to  think  himself  a  victim. 

Out  in  the  barren  waste  of  the  Chinook 
Country,  lonely  and  gloomy,  Mart  had  planned 
vengeance.  But  against  whom?  No  one  man 

183 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

could  fight  the  Government.  Failure  was  sure 
to  come,  and  it  meant  death  or  worse  —  further 
imprisonment.  In  time  Mart  had  come  to  regard 
all  humanity  as  his  enemy.  Thus  does  crime  and 
solitude  twist  the  mind  of  man.  Mart  was  ripe 
for  a  killing.  And  these  men  were  offering  him 
t  chance. 


CHAPTER  XV 
THE  CATTLE-SHEEP  WAR 

NEXT  morning  before  dawn  a  determined  and 
desperate  band  of  men  rode  from  the  Star 
Circle  Ranch,  under  the  leadership  of  Mart 
Cooley.  Whitey  and  Injun  were  wise  enough 
not  to  show  themselves,  Whitey  fearing  not 
only  that  they  would  be  forbidden  to  go,  but  that 
they  would  be  sent  home.  This  would  be  morti- 
fying, to  say  the  least.  But  if  he  were  not  for- 
bidden —  well,  we  all  know  the  kinds  of  excuses 
with  which  we  ease  our  consciences. 

While  this  was  going  on  in  Whitey's  mind. 
Bill  Jordan  was  sleeping  at  the  Bar  O.  But  had 
Bill  known  whither  his  joke  on  Whitey  was 
leading  the  boys,  it  is  likely  that  he  would  not 
have  slumbered  so  peacefully. 

So  they  waited  until  the  warlike  expedition 
had  disappeared  on  the  rolling  prairie,  and  then 
they  followed  at  a  distance.  And  that  was  easy, 
for  Injun  could  have  tracked  that  mass  of 
horses'  hoofprints  in  his  sleep. 

185 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

Most  of  the  time  Injun  and  Whitey  were  out 
of  sight  of  the  cattlemen.  So  in  order  to  make 
this  story  run  right  along,  it  is  necessary  to  tell 
what  happened  to  the  men  while  the  boys  were 
absent,  all  of  which  Injun  and  Whitey  heard 
about  afterwards. 

It  was  well  along  in  the  forenoon  when  in  the 
distance  a  mass  of  moving  dots,  with  moving 
specks  on  its  outskirts,  indicated  a  flock  of 
sheep,  and  spurring  their  horses  to  a  gallop  the 
men  dashed  toward  it.  And  I  regret  to  say  that 
when  the  flock  was  reached,  the  gallop  did  not 
end.  The  men  rode  straight  through  that, 
bleating,  panic-stricken  mass,  on  the  edge  of 
which  two  hysterical  collies  vainly  tried  to  exert 
control  of  their  charges.  The  cattlemen  were 
looking  for  the  shepherd. 

Some  distance  beyond  the  flock,  or  where  the 
flock  had  been,  for  the  sheep  were  now  rushing 
across  the  plain,  was  a  two-horse,  canvas-topped 
wagon,  with  a  stove-pipe  protruding  through 
the  top  at  the  back.  For  your  sheepherder  does 
not  sleep  on  the  ground  like  the  cowboy,  but 
prefers  a  sheltering  wagon.  When  the  men 
186 


THE  CATTLE-SHEEP  WAR 

reached  this  shelter,  there  was  no  one  in  sight. 
As  they  reined  in,  one  of  the  leaders  called, 
"Come  out  of  there,  you  black-hearted  dog!" 

There  was  no  response.  Twenty  guns  were 
drawn  from  their  holsters.  There  was  a  mo- 
ment's pause,  and  the  guns  were  raised.  But 
the  curtains  of  the  wagon  were  drawn,  and  a 
figure  appeared  and  descended  to  the  ground. 
The  guns  were  held  suspended  in  the  hands 
of  their  surprised  owners  —  for  they  faced  a 
woman. 

The  lynching  party  drew  the  line  at  killing 
the  woman  —  though  she  did  not  know  that  — 
but  they  did  not  draw  the  line  at  making  her 
talk.  She  was  a  half-breed,  and  she  spoke  Eng- 
lish very  badly,  but  with  a  gun  thrust  in  her 
face,  she  spoke  enough. 

And  from  what  the  frightened  creature  gasped 
out,  and  from  what  Mart  Cooley  figured  in  his 
mind,  this  is  what  was  learned:  Knowing  that 
the  cattlemen  would  seek  revenge,  but  would 
first  round  up  their  scattered  herd,  the  sheep- 
men had  had  time  to  act.  They  had  driven  al- 
most all  their  sheep  to  the  home  ranch  of  the  big 
187 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

owners,  thinking  they  could  be  protected  better 
there.  They  had  gathered  all  the  men  available, 
and  these  were  at  the  ranch,  awaiting  an  attack. 
The  woman's  flock  was  too  far  away  to  be 
driven  in,  and  she  had  been  left  in  charge  be- 
cause the  sheepmen  had  thought  that  the  cow- 
men would  not  harm  her. 

With  this  knowledge  gained,  the  party  wasted 
no  more  time  on  the  woman  or  on  her  scattered 
sheep,  but  started  off  for  the  bigger  game. 
When  Injun  and  Whitey  arrived  on  the  spot, 
the  woman  had  nothing  more  to  say.  She  pos- 
sibly felt  that  she  had  talked  enough.  Besides, 
she  was  busy  smoking  a  pipe  and  waiting  for  the 
clever  dogs  to  gather  the  scattered  flock.  But 
the  ground  was  like  the  page  of  a  book  to  Injun, 
and  he  read  there,  much  better  than  the  wo- 
man could  have  told  him,  that  the  sheep  had 
been  scattered,  and  the  direction  in  which  the 
men  had  gone. 

Donald  Spellman,  the  manager  of  the  sheep 

ranch,  was  a  clever,  daring,  and  resourceful  man. 

His  ranch  house  was  situated  at  the  head  of  a 

narrow  canyon,  or  coulee,  that  led  up  into  steep, 

188 


THE  CATTLE-SHEEP  WAR 

barren  hills  down  which  no  horse  could  go.  Into 
this  pocket  he  had  the  sheep  driven  by  thou- 
sands. Across  the  narrow  entrance  his  men  had 
built  a  heavy  barbed-wire  fence  that  was  not 
visible  from  the  foothills.  In  the  daytime  the 
pass  could  be  defended  from  the  ranch  house. 
At  night,  with  the  sheepmen  stationed  in  the 
hills,  an  attempt  to  break  through  that  wire 
fence  would  be  more  than  dangerous.  And  this 
was  the  situation  against  which  Mart  Cooley 
led  his  determined  band. 

It  was  at  the  end  of  a  hard  day's  ride,  and 
late  afternoon,  when  the  cattlemen  arrived  in 
sight  of  the  enemies'  stronghold.  They  had 
circled  the  plains  to  the  west,  and  ridden  down 
in  the  shelter  of  the  hills,  to  avoid  coming  within 
rifle  range  of  the  house.  These  western  hills 
were  rocky,  and  at  their  end  a  growth  of  firs, 
scrub  oak,  and  brush  gave  the  lynchers  shelter. 
They  were  four  or  five  hundred  yards  from  the 
house,  which  was  in  plain  view. 

Mart  Cooley,  Walt  Lampson,  Buck  Milton, 
and  a  couple  of  ranchmen  stood  in  this  natural 
screen  and  took  in  the  situation. 

189  , 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

"Sheep  must  be  up  in  that  coulee,"  said  Walt. 

"Sure,"  Mart  replied.  "They  c'n  wait.  That 
there  house  is  sure  in  a  good  spot.  If  it'd  bin 
planned  for  a  fort  it  couldn't  be  better."  He 
stood  and  silently  regarded  the  house,  his  eyes 
narrowed  more  than  usual.  "How  many  men 
d'ye  s'pose  they've  got  in  there?"  he  asked 
finally. 

"Reck'n  they  could  scrape  up  *bout  twenty- 
five,  in  th'  time  they've  had,"  Walt  answered. 

"An'  some  o'  'em  shepherds,  an'  rotten  shots, 
an*  they's  fifty  o'  us,"  Buck  put  in.  He  was 
eager  for  action. 

"Well,  I  come  here  t'  fight,  an'  I'm  paid  for 
it,"  said  Mart  Cooley.  "But  if  we  go  after  'em 
in  th'  open  an'  th'  daylight,  they'll  get  a  lot  of 
us.  We'll  wait  till  night." 

"Suits  me,"  said  Walt  Lampson.  "I  don't 
want  no  sheepman  t'  get  me." 

There  was  a  puff  of  smoke  from  the  house,  and 
a  bullet  whined  over  the  men's  heads.  They 
dropped  to  the  ground.  The  lynchers  raised 
their  rifles  and  emptied  them,  but  not  at  the 
house.  Back  of  it  and  to  the  left  was  a  raised 
190 


THE  CATTLE-SHEEP  WAR 

water  tank,  and  into  the  lower  part  of  this  the 
shots  were  directed.  As  the  men  wormed  their 
way  back  through  the  scrub,  and  around  the  hill, 
thin  streams  of  water  began  to  trickle  from  the 
tank. 

"  If  we  have  t*  stick  'round  awhile,  we'll  leave 
'em  some  thirsty,  anyhow,"  said  Walt. 

Volieys  of  harmless  shots  had  followed  their 
creeping  course,  for  at  five  hundred  yards  it  is 
hard  to  hit  an  object  on  the  ground  —  especially 
when  it  is  protected  by  scrub. 

Under  cover  of  the  steep  hills  the  cattlemen 
waited  for  night.  There  was  no  sign  of  attack 
from  the  hills.  Evidently  the  sheepmen  were 
keeping  their  forces  in  the  house  during  the  day- 
light hours.  After  a  brief  twilight  the  night  fell, 
cloudy  and  very  dark.  And  Mart  Cooley  had 
formed  another  plan. 

One  of  the  men  knew  the  lay  of  the  canyon. 
Its  only  practical  outlet  was  that  guarded  by 
the  sheepmen.  But  a  short  way  up  the  canyon 
there  was  a  spring  in  the  hills,  which  found  its 
outlet  in  a  narrow  stream  that  ended  in  a  small 
waterfall  at  the  edge  of  a  cliff.  Mart  figured  on 
191 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

his  force  entering  the  canyon,  stampeding  the 
sheep,  and  driving  them  over  this  waterfall.  It 
was  as  simple  as  it  was  cruel,  but  you  may  have 
noticed  that  it  takes  clever  people  to  think  of 
simple  things,  and  Mart  Cooley  was  proving 
almost  as  clever  with  his  mind  as  he  was  with 
his  guns.  For  Mart  also  figured  on  the  effect  on 
the  sheepmen's  nerve  when  they  found  their 
herds  gone,  and  their  water  from  the  tank  giving 
out. 

Under  cover  of  darkness  Mart  led  about  fif- 
teen men  around  the  hill,  which  they  skirted,  and, 
giving  the  ranch  house  a  wide  berth,  made  their 
way  toward  the  mouth  of  the  canyon.  There 
was  only  one  thing  to  guide  them  on  their  course. 
Where  the  western  hills  raised  their  heights  to- 
ward the  sky,  their  outline  showed  darker  than 
the  surrounding  night.  From  this  wall  of  black, 
Mart's  force  steered  a  diagonal  course  that 
would  lead  to  the  center  of  the  canyon's  mouth. 
Once  in  the  canyon,  out  of  range  of  the  house 
and  among  the  sheep,  lanterns  and  fires  would 
provide  light  enough  for  the  men's  purpose. 

It  is  not  likely  that  there  was  an  idea  of  poetic 
192 


THE  CATTLE-SHEEP  WAR 

justice  in  the  mind  of  Mart  Cooley;  a  thought 
that  in  stampeding  the  sheep  he  was  repaying 
the  sheepmen  in  their  own  coin  for  stampeding 
the  cattle,  repaying  them  with  the  death  of  the 
victims  added  as  interest. 

The  plan  seemed  to  be  working  out  easily  — 
too  easily.  Then,  from  one  of  the  foremost 
rider's  mounts,  came  the  shrill  neigh  of  a  horse 
in  pain,  and  the  thudding  of  the  animal's  hoofs 
as  it  shied  violently,  for  it  had  collided  with  the 
barbed  wire  fence.  This  was  Mart's  first  intima- 
tion that  there  was  a  fence,  but  he  had  no  time 
to  think  that  he  had  been  matched  in  cleverness 
by  Donald  Spellman,  for  things  began  to  happen. 

First  came  the  sound  of  a  cowbell.  At  inter- 
vals along  the  lower  strands  of  barbed  wire  bells 
had  been  hung.  Next  came  a  volley  of  shots, 
from  the  hills,  which  had  been  sought  by  the 
sheepmen  under  the  cover  of  the  night.  They 
were  firing  toward  the  sound  of  the  bells.  The 
firing  was  not  well-directed,  but  it  was  steady 
and  dangerous. 

It  is  doubtful  whether  the  attackers  could 
have  cut  their  way  through  the  fence,  handi- 
193 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 


capped  as  they  were,  but  they  had  no  chance  to 
try,  for  just  then  a  third  thing  happened.  A 
cloud-obscured  moon  had  been  climbing  the 
eastern  hills,  and  at  that  moment  the  clouds 
parted  and  the  entire  valley  was  bathed  in 
moonlight. 

The  light  was  peaceful  and  beautiful,  but  it 
brought  a  deadly  effect.  Not  only  did  it  reveal 
the  cattlemen  to  their  enemies  in  the  hills,  but 
to  those  in  the  distant  ranch  house,  as  well.  The 
cracking  of  rifles  was  almost  continuous  in  that 
fatal  triangle,  in  which  the  sheepmen  formed 
two  points,  and  the  cowmen  the  tragic  third. 

As  the  trapped  fifteen  rushed  their  mounts 
toward  the  shelter  of  the  western  hills,  drawing 
farther  away  from  their  eastern  enemies,  they 
were  forced  to  a  nearer  approach  to  the 
ranch  house,  to  run  the  gantlet  of  its  concealed 
sharp-shooters.  A  galloping  horse,  with  its 
rider,  does  not  offer  an  easy  mark;  fifteen  of 
them,  the  objective  of  twenty  rifles,  form  a 
better  target.  And  when  Mart  Cooley's  fol- 
lowers reached  the  shadows  of  the  farther  hills, 
they  did  not  number  fifteen,  but  eight. 
194 


THE  CATTLE-SHEEP  WAR 

It  was  into  this  party  of  flying  horsemen  that 
Injun  and  Whitey  were  carried  bodily.  As 
darkness  had  come  on,  the  boys  had  ridden 
cautiously  in  the  tracks  of  the  advancing  party. 
They  had  been  attracted  by  the  sound  of  the 
shots,  and  approached  as  near  as  they  dared,  to 
witness  the  battle.  They  were  near  the  corner 
of  the  hill  when  the  terrified  horses  dashed  to- 
ward them,  and  to  avoid  being  run  down  they 
had  spurred  their  ponies  ahead  and  were  swept 
along  with  the  flying  riders. 

Well,  Mart  Cooley  had  made  the  mistake  of 
not  figuring  on  the  cleverness  of  Donald  Spell- 
man,  and  the  result  of  this  was  not  only  to  make 
him  furious  with  himself,  but  to  add  to  his,  and 
to  all  the  other  men's  desire  for  revenge.  All 
thoughts  of  starving  the  enemy  out  were  lost, 
absorbed  in  a  lust  for  killing.  The  excited  men 
paid  no  attention  to  the  boys.  It  is  doubtful  if 
they  even  saw  them. 

Mart  took  his  forty-odd  men  back  to  the  firs 

and  scrub  oaks  at  the  lower  point  of  the  western 

hills,  and  there  they  stretched  out  in  the  brush, 

and  prepared  to  bombard  the  ranch  house.  The 

195 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

moonlight  was  now  Mart's  friend  instead  of  his 
enemy.  The  sheepmen  were  divided.  Those  on 
the  hills  would  come  in  range  of  the  cattlemen's 
rifles  if  they  attempted  to  cross  the  moonlit 
valley,  and  in  the  meantime  they  were  harm- 
less. 

A  number  of  volleys  were  fired  into  the  house, 
not  at  the  windows,  but  beneath  the  window 
ledges.  When  men  are  besieged  in  a  house  they 
must  fire  from  the  windows,  kneeling  by  them. 
Several  of  the  cattlemen's  bullets  tearing  through 
the  wooden  wall  of  the  house  had  caught  these 
kneeling  figures,  and  the  fire  from  the  place, 
never  accurate,  began  to  weaken.  Mart  had 
another  purpose  in  view,  but  of  that  he  said 
nothing.  Possibly  he  was  mortified  by  the  fail- 
ure of  his  sheep  raid. 

Knowing  Injun  and  Whitey  as  you  do,  you 
can  imagine  that  they  got  as  near  to  this  danger- 
ous situation  as  they  could.  No  one  ordered 
them  back  because  no  one  noticed  them.  But 
they  fired  no  shots.  The  wish  to  kill  any  man, 
no  matter  how  vile,  filled  no  part  of  Whitey's 
young  life.  It  would  be  hard  to  answer  for  Injun. 
196 


THE  CATTLE-SHEEP  WAR 

Hard  to  tell  what  the  blood  of  all  his  fighting 
forefathers  was  prompting  him  to  do. 

But  Injun  couldn't  fire  a  shot  if  he  wanted  to. 
You  may  remember  the  Winchester  that  had 
been  presented  to  Injun  at  the  Bar  O  Ranch.  He 
had  left  the  gun  at  home.  Injun  knew  nothing 
of  the  modern  silencer,  but  he  had  one  of  his  own 
—  his  bow  and  arrows.  When  he  had  started  out 
in  pursuit  of  the  horse-thief,  whom  he  supposed 
to  be  Henry  Dorgan,  Injun  had  carried  these. 
No  explosive  gunshots  for  him.  He  expected  to 
have  to  work  silently. 

While  most  of  the  men  had  their  eyes  and  the 
sights  of  their  guns  fixed  on  the  house,  Mart 
Cooley  kept  his  eyes  on  the  sky.  But  despite 
this  Mart  noticed  that  no  shots  came  from  two 
figures  near  him,  and  looking  closer  he  saw  the 
crouching  Whitey  and  Injun,  the  latter  with  his 
bow  and  arrows.  Mart  was  about  to  speak  to 
them,  when  a  cloud  crossed  the  moon.  Mart 
gave  vent  to  an  oath  of  satisfaction  and  started 
forward.  Then  he  thought  of  something,  came 
back,  and  grasping  Injun  by  the  arm,  dragged 
him  forward  with  him. 

197 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

It  was  a  large  cloud  that  obscured  the  moon, 
so  there  was  a  long  period  of  darkness.  Whitey 
stayed  where  he  was.  He  wondered  whether 
Mart  Cooley  would  come  and  drag  him  forward, 
and  rather  hoped  so.  He  wondered  whether  this 
darkness  would  give  the  men  on  the  hills  a 
chance  to  join  their  fellows  in  the  ranch  house. 
And  Whitey  also  wondered  where  Buck  Milton 
was.  He  hadn't  seen  him  with  the  party.  But 
Buck  was  lying  out  there  on  the  plain;  that  is, 
the  mortal  Buck  was.  The  other  Buck  was 
probably  with  his  friend  Tom. 

At  last  Whitey's  curiosity  could  hold  him 
back  no  longer,  and  he  crept  forward  to  the 
front  line  of  men,  keeping  well  to  one  side.  They 
had  ceased  firing,  the  house  was  dark.  And 
the  sheepmen  there  had  ceased  firing  too.  Their 
only  marks  had  been  the  flashes  of  the  cattle- 
men's guns,  and  those  showed  no  longer. 

All  the  men  were  hushed,  as  though  in  ex- 
pectancy. Whitey  peered  into  the  darkness,  as 
they  were  doing.  The  cloud's  ragged  edge 
showed  at  the  lower  half  of  the  moon,  and  the 
ranch  house  could  be  dimly  seen.  From  halfway 


THE  CATTLE-SHEEP  WAR 

between  it  and  the  men  a  small  light  appeared, 
flickered  for  a  moment,  then  rising  in  the  air 
described  a  graceful  half-circle  and  alighted  on 
the  ranch  house  roof.  Another,  another,  and 
then  others  followed.  Injun  was  firing  lighted 
arrows. 

The  moon  came  forth,  and  a  volley  of  shots 
was  poured  from  the  ranch  house  toward  the 
spot  from  whence  the  arrows  had  come.  A  vol- 
ley from  the  cattlemen  penetrated  the  walls  of 
the  house.  Whitey  trembled  for  Injun,  out  there 
in  No  Man's  Land.  He  need  not  have  trembled, 
for  that  young  person  was  safely  crouching  be- 
hind a  boulder. 

For  the  first  time  Whitey  noticed  that  a  breeze 
was  stirring.  Just  as  in  the  night  when  you  light 
a  match  a  breeze  springs  up  to  put  it  out,  so  now 
wind  seemed  to  come  to  fan  those  burning  arrows 
on  the  ranch  house  roof.  Whitey  watched, 
chilled  but  fascinated.  The  men  around  him 
were  in  the  whirl  of  a  fight.  He  was  a  spectator; 
one  who  saw  other  men  being  forced  out  of  a 
trap  to  their  deaths.  The  arrows  burned  like 
tinder.  Whitey  did  not  know  that  they  were 
199 


INJUN  AND  WHTTEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

soaked  in  oil,  brought  along  for  the  purpose  oi 
firing  the  house. 

There  had  been  no  rain  for  a  week,  so  the  roof 
was  dry,  and  soon  narrow,  snake-like  lines  of 
flame  began  to  creep  across  it.  Whitey  thought 
of  the  feelings  of  the  imprisoned  sheepmen, 
knowing  what  was  going  on  overhead,  but  help- 
less to  prevent  it.  It  seemed  that  they  surely 
must  make  some  effort.  Both  sides  had  ceased 
firing.  Then  an  idea  occurred  to  Whitey.  Why 
did  not  the  sheepmen  escape  from  the  back  of 
the  house?  A  volley  of  shots  from  the  other  side 
of  the  valley  seemed  to  answer  the  question. 
Under  cover  of  the  darkness  Mart  Cooley  had 
sent  half  his  men  to  a  point  that  commanded  the 
rear  of  the  ranch  house.  Their  shots  sounded 
continuously  for  a  moment  and  told  a  plain 
story.  The  sheepmen  had  tried  to  escape  frorr 
the  back,  and  had  failed. 

These  shots  told  another  story.  Why  were 
they  not  answered  from  the  hills?  Because  the 
hill  men  had  joined  their  fellows  in  the  ranch 
house.  All  were  cooped  up  there,  making  their 
choice  of  deaths;  by  fire  or  by  bullets.  Any- 
200 


THE  MAN'S  FIGURE  DISAPPEARED  THROUGH  THE  OPENING, 
THE  BUCKET  FALLING  FROM  HIS  HANDS 


THE  CATTLE-SHEEP  WAR 

thing  would  be  better  than  the  fire.  Why  didn't 
they  do  something?  Whitey  found  himself 
growing  impatient  with  these  doomed  men  whom 
he  never  had  seen. 

Something  was  stirring  on  the  ranch  house 
roof  and  glittered  occasionally  in  the  moonlight. 
The  cattlemen  watched  it  intently.  It  was  the 
head  of  an  axe,  forcing  its  way  through  from  be- 
neath. The  cattlemen  laughed.  When  the  wield- 
ed axe  had  formed  a  sufficient  opening,  the  head 
and  shoulders  of  a  man  appeared  in  it,  and  his 
hands  followed,  supporting  a  bucket  of  water. 
Twenty  of  the  attackers'  rifles  were  directed  to- 
ward the  roof,  but  at  an  order  from  Mart  Cooley 
they  were  lowered.  Mart  raised  his  rifle,  fired  a 
single  shot,  and  the  man's  figure  disappeared 
through  the  opening,  the  bucket  falling  from  his 
hands  and  pitching  down  over  the  edge  of  the  roof. 

"Now  they  know  what  kind  o'  shootin'  t'  ex- 
pect when  they  come  out,"  said  Mart. 

So  Whitey  knew  why  Mart  alone  had  fired. 
It  was  to  add  to  the  fears  of  the  sheepmen  —  if 
that  could  be  done.    Anyway,  no  other  man 
appeared  at  the  opening  in  the  roof. 
201 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  TOE  RESCUE 

Whitey  watched  the  flames  creep  up  and  down 
the  roof,  growing  higher  as  they  stole  along.  He 
saw  them  flicker  over  the  eaves,  lap  the  walls  of 
the  house,  and  finally  clasp  it  like  a  red,  flaring 
robe.  But  Whitey  did  not  think  of  the  fire  in 
those  terms,  but  as  a  thing  of  horror,  of  death. 

You,  who  have  followed  the  adventures  of 
Whitey,  know  that  he  had  been  in  situations  in 
which  he  was  threatened  with  death.  But  then 
he  had  been  upheld  by  excitement;  by  the 
necessity  of  protecting  himself.  And  he  had  even 
faced  death,  but  then  he  had  come  on  it  unex- 
pectedly, in  the  case  of  the  hanging  train  robbers. 
This  was  a  different  matter;  waiting  to  see  men 
burned  out  and  shot  down.  And  it  is  small 
wonder  that  Whitey 's  nerves  quivered,  that  the 
burning  house  began  to  dance  before  his  eyes, 
and  that  he  buried  his  face  in  his  arms,  to  shut 
out  the  sight. 

It  is  unlikely  that  Walt  Lampson  had  thought 
of  Whitey,  until  he  chanced  to  see  this  action. 
Then  he  spoke,  and  not  unkindly. 

"You'd  better  get  back  there  behind  the  hill, 
kid,"  Walt  said.  "This  ain't  no  place  for  you.'; 
202 


THE  CATTLE-SHEEP  WAR 

And  so  Whitey  rose,  and  returned  to  where 
Monty  was  tethered,  and  he  was  not  ashamed 
of  the  fact  that  he  stumbled  as  he  walked.  But 
Injun  still  crouched  out  behind  the  boulder. 
There  was  no  quivering  of  his  nerves.  The  only 
fear  he  might  have  had  was  that  if  he  returned 
he  would  be  sent  to  the  rear;  and  he  was  too 
wily  to  take  a  chance.  So  most  of  what  followed 
was  seen  by  Injun,  and  heard  about  by  Whitey. 

There  came  the  time  when  the  surviving 
sheepmen  could  no  longer  remain  in  the  house. 
Like  a  wise  leader,  Donald  Spellman  divided 
his  forces,  and  ten  crouching  figures  emerged 
from  the  front  of  the  house,  and  ten  from  the 
back,  and  were  outlined  against  the  flames,  as 
they  scurried  away.  How  they  were  harried  and 
followed  and  shot  down  would  not  make  pleasant 
reading,  and  what  happened  to  those  who  were 
captured  it  is  not  necessary  to  write,  as  you  will 
remember  what  the  cattlemen  had  sworn  to  do 
at  their  meeting. 

After  this,  if  there  had  been  any  who  doubted 
Mart  Cooley's  skill  as  a  gunman,  they  doubted 
no  longer.  And  it  was  the  misfortune  of  Donald 
203 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

Spellman  to  come  under  Mart's  aim.  Or  perhaps 
it  was  his  good  fortune  to  be  mortally  wounded 
by  a  bullet,  instead  of  ending  his  life  as  did  the 
captives.  But  Spellman  had  something  to  say 
before  he  died,  and  he  said  it  to  Walt  Lampson. 

"You  got  us,"  he  gasped,  "an*  you  got  us 
right.  An'  I  only  got  one  thing  to  tell  you,  an* 
to  tell  you  quick.  I  didn't  plan  that  cattle  stam- 
pede. It  was  a  dirty  trick." 

"Who  did?"  Walter  asked  eagerly. 

And  Spellman  answered  that  question  with 
the  last  words  he  ever  spoke. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Injun,  still  crouching 
behind  his  boulder,  saw  something  like  a  miracle 
—  a  dead  man  coming  to  life.  The  man  had 
fallen  at  the  first  volley,  and  the  fight  had  swung 
past  him.  And  now  he  rose,  and  stole  hastily 
on  his  moonlit  way.  Injun  watched  solemnly. 
He  had  no  mind  to  give  a  warning,  and  probably 
get  shot  for  his  pains.  He  might  even  have  ad- 
mired the  trick,  if  he  had  not  had  a  closer  view 
of  the  runaway,  who  was  Henry  Dorgan. 

When  Injun  discovered  this,  he  was  solemn 
no  longer.  He  reached  for  his  bow,  but  there 
204 


THE  CATTLE-SHEEP  WAR 

was  no  arrow  to  fit  in  it.  The  last  had  been  shot 
at  the  ranch  house.  Injun  watched  Dorgan  dis- 
appear into  the  night,  and  said  bitter  things  — 
in  the  Injun  language. 

So  ended  the  last  of  this  engagement  in  the 
cattle-sheep  war,  except  for  one  incident.  The 
cause  of  it  all  was  still  to  be  dealt  with  —  the 
sheep.  And  here  was  another  picture  that 
Whitey  fortunately  missed.  A  tragic  picture,  seen 
from  the  hills  at  dawn,  as  the  white,  panic- 
stricken  creatures,  crowding,  bleating,  and  com- 
plaining, were  forced  through  the  canyon  to  the 
bed  of  the  narrow,  shallow  stream,  on  their  way 
to  the  opening  in  the  cliffs,  through  which  the 
brook  fell  in  a  tiny  waterfall  over  the  edge  of  the 
precipice.  These  innocent  instruments  and  vic- 
tims of  the  greed  and  passions  of  man ! 

These  things  happened,  my  friends.  Let  you 
and  me,  and  all  of  those  who  love  America  and 
the  West,  send  up  a  silent  prayer  to  the  Creator 
that  they  are  of  the  past,  that  they  may  never 
happen  again  —  to  leave  such  harrowing  pic- 
tures in  the  minds  of  men. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

"MEDICINE" 

THE  sun  was  shining  on  the  Star  Circle  Ranch. 
Whitey  sat  in  the  doorway  of  the  bunk  house, 
and  listened  to  the  talk  and  laughter  of  two  or 
three  idle  punchers  inside.  Two  days  had  passed 
since  the  tragedy.  Though  the  laughing  cowboys 
had  not  forgotten  it,  it  was  already  a  thing  of 
the  past;  "all  in  a  day's  work."  For  it  was  like 
that  in  the  West,  in  those  times  —  death  one 
day,  laughter  the  next. 

Another  being  sat  in  the  sunshine  near  the 
distant  Bar  O  Ranch  house;  squat,  bow-legged, 
his  face  wrinkled  with  anxiety  and  expectancy, 
he  looked  longingly  off  at  the  dusty  road  along 
which  Whitey  had  gone,  waiting  and  hoping  for 
his  friend's  return.  Thus  sat  Sitting  Bull,  for- 
gotten but  not  forgetting. 

Injun  approached  Whitey,  from  the  direction 
of  the  Star  Circle  Ranch  house.  In  his  hand  was 
an  object  which  he  regarded  gravely  as  he 
walked.  Two  grunted  words  at  a  time  he  used 
in  telling  Whitey  the  meaning  of  this  object. 
206 


MEDICINE 


The  ranchmen  had  thought  that  Injun's  serv- 
ices on  the  night  of  the  fight  deserved  some 
reward.  A  messenger  had  been  sent  to  Jimtown, 
and  had  returned  with  the  reward,  which  had 
just  been  presented  to  Injun.  It  was  a  stickpin, 
a  large  imitation  emerald,  in  a  solid  gold  setting, 
to  be  inserted  in  one's  necktie,  the  latest  thing 
in  fashion  in  a  country  where  few  men  wore  ties. 
Whitey  looked  at  the  pin,  and,  glad  of  the  chance, 
he  laughed  and  laughed.  Injun  did  not  laugh. 
He  liked  the  stickpin.  He  was  proud  of  it. 

Louder  sounds  of  merriment  in  the  bunk  house 
attracted  Whitey,  and,  leaving  Injun  to  gloat 
over  his  treasure,  Whitey  joined  the  men  inside. 
It  may  have  been  that  they,  too,  were  glad  to 
have  laughter  help  them  to  forget  the  dangers 
and  tragedies  of  the  times.  One  of  them  had 
just  told  a  story  —  which  might  have  been  a 
story  in  both  senses  of  the  word.  Knowing  that 
a  yarn  usually  comes  with  a  cowboy,  or  a  cowboy 
usually  comes  with  a  yarn,  Whitey  sat  down  and 
waited. 

I  have  written  that  most  of  the  mirth  on  the 
Star  Cirde  was  aroused  by  the  troubles  of  others, 
207 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

but  that  was  not  true  of  all  of  it.  On  a  cracker 
box  sat  a  dreamy-eyed,  short,  fat  puncher;  al- 
most too  fat  for  his  job.  His  nickname  was 
"Single."  He  had  been  married  five  times.  So 
you  can  see  that  Single  was  a  man  of  experiences. 
Furthermore,  he  was  always  willing  to  talk  about 
them.  He  gazed  thoughtfully  at  Injun,  who,  out 
in  the  sunlight,  was  still  admiring  his  stickpin. 

"The  two  funniest  things  in  th'  world  t'  me  is 
mules  an*  Injuns,"  Single  said. 

"Injuns  don't  never  say  or  do  nothin'  funny," 
retorted  a  sour-looking  puncher. 

"I  mean  queer,  odd,"  Single  replied. 

"What  do  you  know  'bout  Injuns?"  de- 
manded the  other. 

"What  do  I  know  *bout  'em!"  snorted  Single. 
"My  third  wife  was  a  half-breed." 

"Gosh,  Single!"  another  puncher  broke  in. 
"I  knew  you'd  had  plenty  o'  wives,  but  I  never 
knew  you'd  had  no  half  wives." 

"Th'   wa'n't   nothin'    halfway   tx>ut   her," 
Single  replied  bitterly,  " 'cept  th'  breed."  He 
seemed  lost  in  gloomy  thought,  and  fearing  that 
he  would  not  talk  at  all,  Whitey  spoke. 
208 


MEDICINE 


"That  was  an  inappropriate  present  to  give 
Injun,"  he  said. 

"An  inawhat?"  asked  Single,  whose  education 
had  been  neglected. 

"Inappropriate.  I  mean  it  was  something  you 
wouldn't  think  he'd  like,"  Whitey  explained 
hastily. 

"I  dunno,"  Single  answered.  "You  can't 
never  tell  'bout  a  Injun.  He  looks  stuck  on  that 
there  present  now,"  and  he  nodded  toward  Injun, 
who  was  devouring  the  stickpin  with  his  eyes. 
"Mebbe  he  thinks  it's  med'cine,"  Single  went  on. 

"Medicine!"  exclaimed  Whitey. 

"Sure  —  good  luck,"  said  Single.  "An*  if  he 
does,  you  couldn't  pry  it  off 'n  him  with  a  steam 
dredge." 

It  had  not  occurred  to  Whitey  that  Injun  was 
superstitious.  He  never  had  talked  about  it  — 
but  he  never  talked  much  about  anything.  And 
an  Indian's  "medicine"  is  superstition,  pure  and 
simple.  He  cherishes  some  object  that  he  has 
come  upon  under  conditions  that  make  him 
think  it  lucky.  Sometimes  the  medicine  man  of 
his  tribe  performs  a  rite  over  this  object,  and 
209 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

that  gives  a  sort  of  religious  flavor  to  it,  making 
it  almost  sacred  in  the  owner's  view.  His  belief  in 
it  is  tribal;  has  come  down  from  his  forefathers. 
It  is  very  hard  to  shake  an  Indian's  faith  in  his 
medicine. 

While  Whitey  was  recalling  these  facts,  which 
he  had  heard  about,  Single's  eyes  were  narrow- 
ing —  looking  inside  his  head,  one  might  say, 
to  find  there  a  story  that  fitted  in  with  Injun's 
interest  in  his  gift. 

"Speakin'  o'  my  third  wife'?  half  brother," 
Single  broke  out,  at  last. 

"What  kind  o'  fambly  was  that?"  inter- 
rupted the  sour  puncher.  "Thirds,  an'  halfs,  an' 
things.  Sounds  more  like  'rithmetic  than  a 
fambly." 

"It  was  harder'n  'rithmetic,"  Single  replied 
darkly.  "This  here  half  brother  o'  my  wife's  was 
a  Cognowaga"  (Caughnawaga). 

"Gee,  what  a  fambly!"  groaned  the  other, 
but  Single  did  not  heed  him. 

"An*  his  name  was  Sam  Sharp,"  Single  went 
on.  "  'Course  that  wasn't  his  real  name.  He  was 
a  sportin'  gent,  an'  that  was  his  sportin'  name, 

2IO 


MEDICINE 


He  was  one  o*  them  all-round  fellers.  Run! 
Say,  he  c'd  make  a  jack-rabbit  look  like  a  fly  in 
a  tub  o'  butter.  He  c'd  jump  higher'n  this  here 
roof,  an'  vault  twic't  as  high.  An'  them  big  shots 
an*  weights  that  they  put  —  I'd  hate  t'  tell  you 
how  far  he  c'd  put  'em.  You  wouldn't  b'lieve 
me." 

"We  don't  b'lieve  you,  anyhow,"  muttered 
one  of  the  boys,  but  Single  didn't  seem  to  hear. 
He  was  wrapped  up  in  his  story. 

"He'd  throw  th'  discus  from  here  down  t'  th' 
corral." 

"What's  a  discus?"  asked  a  puncher. 

"It  doesn't  matter,  but  he  c'd  throw  it,"  said 
Single.  "An'  he  was  champeen  of  America;  not 
only  that,  but  champeen  of  th'  whole  world." 

Now,  it  didn't  make  much  difference  whether 
Single's  story  was  true  or  not.  One  didn't  have 
to  believe  it  to  enjoy  it.  He  aimed  to  astonish, 
rather  than  to  be  truthful.  But  these  state- 
ments were  too  much  for  the  imagination  of  his 
hearers  —  or  rather  for  their  lack  of  it.  He  was 
greeted  by  a  chorus  of  hoots  and  yells  of  dis- 
belief, that  developed  into  a  volley  of  boots  and 

211 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  TOE  RESCUE 

spurs  and  cans  and  anything  that  could  be 
thrown,  and  he  was  fairly  driven  from  the  room. 

And  the  odd  part  of  it  was  that  Single  was 
only  a  little  ahead  of  his  time.  For  there  was 
an  Indian  boy  living  then  who  afterwards  did 
things  as  hard  to  believe,  so  marvelous  that  I 
must  tell  about  him. 

His  name  is  Jim  Thorpe,  and  he  is  a  Sac  and 
Fox  Indian.  His  running  record  for  one  hun- 
dred yards  is  ten  seconds.  For  one  hundred  and 
twenty  yards,  with  three-feet-six-inch  hurdles, 
fifteen  seconds;  running  broad  jump,  over 
twenty-three  feet;  running  high  jump,  over  six 
feet.  He  put  a  sixteen-pound  shot  over  forty- 
three  feet,  and  a  fifty-six  pound  weight  in  the 
neighborhood  of  twenty-eight  feet,  and  made  a 
pole-vault  of  over  twelve  feet.  He  ran  a  half- 
mile  and  a  mile  at  great  speed. 

When  the  Olympian  Games  were  held  in 
Sweden,  and  all  the  champion  athletes  of  the 
world  took  part,  it  was  the  ambition  of  each  to 
win  one  event,  or  even  to  run  one-two-three  in  it. 
There  were  five  events  in  the  Pentathlon  and  ten 
in  the  Decathlon.  Jim  Thorpe  won  them  all. 

212 


MEDICINE 


He  won  the  all-round  championship  of  Amer- 
ica a  couple  of  times,  a  feat  paled  by  those  he 
accomplished  in  the  Olympian  Games.  He  is  the 
greatest  football  player  that  ever  lived,  and  one 
of  the  greatest  Major  League  baseball  players, 
drawing  a  large  salary  from  one  of  the  clubs,  and 
playing  yet.  And  if  you  don't  believe  me,  all 
you  have  to  do  is  to  look  at  the  sporting-records. 

Whitey  was  greatly  disappointed  when  Single 
was  driven  out  of  the  bunk  house.  He  wanted 
to  hear  the  rest  of  that  story  about  the  third 
wife's  half  brother.  So  Whitey  went  after  Single, 
and  tried  to  coax  him  to  come  back. 

And  the  other  punchers  were  sorry  that  they 
had  been  so  hasty,  for  they  wanted  to  see  how 
far  Single's  imagination  would  carry  him. 

Whitey  had  heard  an  old  yam  about  a  parrot 
in  a  mining  camp.  A  magician  was  giving  a  per- 
formance at  the  camp,  and  after  every  trick  the 
miners  would  say,  "I  wonder  what  he's  going  to 
do  next?"  One  of  them  was  smoking,  a  spark 
fell  in  a  keg  of  powder,  and  blew  the  camp  away 
from  that  place.  The  parrot  landed  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  off,  most  of  his  feathers  gone,  his  cage 
213 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

was  a  wreck.    And,  peering  out,  he  asked,  "I 
wonder  what  he's  going  to  do  next?" 

That  was  the  way  it  was  with  those  cow- 
punchers,  and  they  joined  Whitey,  and  finally 
smoothed  over  Single's  feelings,  and  coaxed  him 
to  continue  his  story  —  which  he  wanted  to  do, 
anyway. 

"Well,  this  here  Sam  Sharp  had  his  faults," 
Single  continued,  when  he  was  settled  again  in 
his  seat.  "  For  a  feller  that  c'd  move  so  quick  he 
was  s'prisin*  lazy;  so  lazy  he'd  trip  over  his  feet 
gettin'  out  o'  his  own  way.  An*  drinkin',  an'  gam- 
blin' ! — say,  I  won't  take  your  time  tellin'  you  all 
th'  things  he  liked.  All  you  had  t'  do  was  t'  ast 
yourself  was  a  thing  wrong.  If  it  was,  Sam  liked  it. 

"Bein'  a  champeen,  o'  course  Sam  had  a  man- 
ager what  made  money  out  o'  Sam's  stunts,  for 
both  o'  'em.  This  manager  was  a  white  mac 
named  Gallager,  an'  his  life  was  made  a  burden, 
for  he  had  t'  train  Sam  for  them  there  stunts,  an' 
Sam  didn't  cotton  to  trainin'  nonesoever.  When 
he  oughta  be  doin*  it,  he'd  be  off  dancin',  or 
drinkin',  or  pokerin',  or  somethin'.  An'  Gallager 
got  sicker  an'  sicker  of  such  doin's. 
214 


MEDICINE 


"Well,  bein'  a  Injun,  Sam  had  a  med'cine.  It 
was  a  twig.  Where  he  got  it  I  don't  know,  but  it 
was  firm  fixed  in  Sam's  nut  that  he  couldn't  run 
without  that  there  twig  was  tucked  inside  his 
shirt.  An'  that  twig  was  s'posed  t'  work  both 
ways.  For  when  Sam  was  runnin'  'gainst  another 
feller,  he'd  put  th'  twig  down  in  one  of  th'  other 
feller's  footprints,  an'  Sam  thought  that  kept  th' 
other  feller  back. 

"Now,  this  here  twig  was  one  o'  Gallager's 
greatest  troubles.  For  Sam  was  always  losin'  it, 
or  leavin'  it  behind,  an'  him  or  Gallager  havin' 
t'  go  after  it,  an'  races  was  havin'  t'  be  held 
back,  or  put  off,  for  Sam  wouldn't  run  without 
that  twig.  So  Gallager  hated  it. 

"Along  comes  a  time  when  Sam  is  stacked  up 
t'  meet  a  corkin'  good  runner.  An'  Sam  was  off 
gallivantin'  'round  at  dances,  an'  worse  things, 
an'  not  trainin'  none  whatever.  An'  Callage: 
says  t'  himself,  'Here's  where  I  cure  that  Injun 
of  th'  twig  habit.'  You  see,  Sam  was  that  soft 
from  loafin',  he  couldn't  have  beat  a  mud  turtle 
up  a  hill,  so  Gallager  figgers  Sam'll  likely  lose  th' 
race,  anyway,  an'  it'll  be  worth  it  t'  get  clear  o* 
2IS 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

that  infernal  twig.    So  Gallager  lets  Sam  stay 
soft. 

"Along  comes  th'  day  o'  th'  race,  an'  Gallager 
hadn't  done  nothin'  or  said  nothin',  an'  Sam 
runs  an'  loses,  an'  after  it's  all  over  Gallager 
goes  t'  him. 

"'Got  your  twig?'  he  says. 

"'Uh,' grunts  Sam. 

"'Stick  it  in  th'  other  feller's  footprints?' 

"'Uh.' 

"'Got  it  in  your  shirt?' 

"'Uh  huh,'  says  Sam,  an'  pulls  out  th'  twig. 

"'Well,  you  didn't  win,  did  you?'  says  Gal- 
lager. 

"'Um,  um,'  says  Sam,  lookin'  at  th'  twig. 

"  'Then  th'  twig's  no  good,  is  it?'  asks  Gallager, 
lookin'  Sam  firmly  in  th'  eye,  an'  Sam  returnin' 
th'  look. 

"'NO!'  says  Sam,  an'  he  throws  th'  twig 
away." 

The  cowpunchers  did  not  believe  this  story. 
They  did  not  think  that  an  Indian  can  be  cured 
of  his  medicine.  But  I  know  it  is  true,  for  I  knew 
the  Indian. 

216 


MEDICINE 


It  might  not  be  amiss  to  state  here  that  there 
is  another  Indian  alive  to-day,  who  was  a  baby 
in  arms  when  Sam  Sharp  lived,  who  ran  in  and 
won  thirty-eight  Marathon  races,  when  no  one 
else  in  the  world  ever  finished  first,  second,  or 
third  in  over  three.  His  name  is  Tom  Longboat. 


CHAPTER  XVII 
"THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  WEST" 

WHITEY  wandered  over  to  the  Star  Circle  Ranch 
house.  He  wanted  to  see  Walt  Lampson,  who 
had  paid  little  attention  to  him  since  the  night 
of  the  fight.  Whitey  was  getting  tired  of  staying 
at  the  Star  Circle,  and  thought  Walt  might  be 
ready  now  to  ship  the  cattle  to  the  Bar  O,  and 
thus  give  Whitey  something  to  do. 

Walt  was  not  in  the  living-room,  which  was  a 
large,  untidy  place  that  also  served  as  an  office. 
There  was  a  great,  flat  desk  in  one  corner,  and 
lying  on  it  —  among  some  dusty  papers,  reports 
and  stock  books  —  was  a  six-gun,  with  its  belt 
and  holster,  a  silver  watch,  a  knife,  and  other 
odds  and  ends.  These  were  the  property  of  poo? 
Buck  Milton,  waiting  till  they  were  claimed,  o: 
would  be  disposed  of. 

Whitey  looked  at  them  sadly.  Near  the  watch 

lay  a  crumpled  and  soiled  piece  of  paper,  and  as 

Whitey  glanced  at  it  his  own  name  caught  his 

eye.  Surprised,  he  picked  the  paper  up  and  read 

218 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  WEST 

it  through  before  he  realized  what  it  was  —  Bill 
Jordan's  letter  to  Dan  Brayton,  of  the  T  Up  and 
Down,  the  letter  Whitey  had  delivered.  It  ran: 

FRIEND  DAN  — 

Whitey  Sherwood,  the  kid  what  fetches  this 
here  letter,  is  tired  uv  school.  He  had  ruther 
fish.  This  here  letter  is  sposed  to  be  on  im- 
portunt  business  uv  his  dads,  the  owner  uv  this 
here  ranch.  The  business  is  to  make  Whitey 
tireder  out  uv  school  than  what  he  was  in  it.  I 
started  the  ball  rollin.  Kin  you  keep  it  goin? 

Hop  in  this  will  find  you  the  same 
Yours  truly 

WM  JORDAN 

There  were  two  notations  in  pencil  at  the 
bottom  of  the  letter.  One  read: 

WALT — Im  passin  the  kid  along  to  you. 
Get  busy. 

DAN 

And  the  other,  Buck's: 

219 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

Dont  kill  this  kid  but  come  as  near  to  it  as 
you  kin. 

WALT 

A  great  light  broke  in  on  Whitey.  So  this  was 
the  meaning  of  it  all  ?  the  twenty-five  mile  walk 
to  Cal  Smith's  house;  the  singular  conduct  of 
the  men  at  the  T  Up  and  Down;  the  nester's 
lending  him  that  jack  Felix,  that  he  knew  would 
run  home  and  leave  Whitey  alone  on  the  plains; 
and  Walt  Lampson's  sending  him  out  on  the 
range,  in  the  face  of  a  storm.  And  as  a  sort  of 
high  peak  in  his  mountain  range  of  troubles 
Whitey  remembered  Little  Thompson's  talk 
about  funerals.  Whitey  buried  his  head  in  his 
hands  and  groaned  at  the  thought.  He  had 
dreamed  of  funerals  ever  since.  He  determined 
to  make  a  will  and  put  in  it  that  Little  Thompson 
should  not  be  allowed  to  come  to  his  (Whitey's) 
funeral. 

They  had  passed  him  along  from  one  to 
another,  making  a  fool  of  him,  and  laughing  be- 
hind his  back  all  the  time.  He  knew  how  rough 
cowmen  often  were  in  their  fun,  and  the  only 

220 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  WEST 

wonder  was  that  they  hadn't  treated  him  worse. 
He  supposed  that  they  would  have  done  so  had 
his  father  not  been  a  ranch-owner.  So!  they 
probably  thought  he  was  something  of  a  molly- 
coddle. He  was  angry  enough,  but  this  thought 
made  him  angrier  —  that  he  hadn't  been  treated 
worse.  Which  goes  to  show  what  a  reasonable 
thing  anger  is! 

Whitey  went  out,  sat  down  behind  the  cook's 
shack,  and  gave  way  to  gloomy  reflections.  He 
reviewed  his  past  life  for  quite  a  way  back,  and 
everything  in  it  seemed  to  be  wrong.  He  wanted 
to  do  big  things,  and  he  always  was  just  missing 
them.  If  he  had  been  earlier  when  he  followed 
those  train  robbers,  he  might  have  warned  the 
people  on  the  train,  and  been  a  sort  of  hero.  If, 
if,  if  —  oh,  what  was  the  use  ? 

But  it  certainly  is  bitter  to  think  you  might 
make  yourself  a  hero,  and  find  that  some  one 
else  has  made  a  fool  of  you.  Whitey  remembered 
a  saying  that  the  first  time  a  fellow  is  fooled  it 
is  the  other  fellow's  fault  —  and  the  next  time 
it  is  his  own.  They  wouldn't  fool  him  again. 
He'd  do  something  big  yet.  He'd  show  them! 

221 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

The  first  thing  to  do  was  to  find  Injun.  The 
next  thing  to  do  was  to  leave  that  Star  Circle 
Ranch.  Whitey  hated  it  there,  anyway.  And 
the  next  was  a  thing  not  to  do  —  not  to  go  back 
to  the  Bar  O,  and  have  Bill  Jordan  and  the  others 
laugh  at  him.  The  first  thing  proved  easy,  and 
Whitey  proceeded  to  tell  Injun  his  troubles. 

"Huh,"  said  Injun.  "Better'n  him  school." 

"I  know  it's  better  than  school,"  said  Whitey, 
annoyed,  as  we  always  are  when  we  seek  sym- 
pathy and  get  facts.  "I'd  rather  do  'most  any- 
thing than  go  to  that  awful  school.  But  what  I 
object  to  is  being  made  a  fool  of."  He  was  suffer- 
ing from  mortification,  which  is  a  sort  of  in- 
growing anger,  and  the  more  it  sunk  in,  the 
angrier  he  got. 

And  here  was  the  plan  he  unfolded  to  Injun; 
the  plan  to  get  even  with  Bill  Jordan.  They 
would  go  to  Moose  Lake,  in  the  foothills  of  the 
mountains.  You  may  remember  that  on  the 
southwestern  shore  of  this  lake  was  a  cabin, 
which  had  been  the  scene  of  some  of  the  boys' 
former  adventures.  They  would  make  this  cabin 
their  headquarters.  Bill  Jordan  never  would  sus- 

222 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  WEST 

pect  that  they  were  there.  They  would  live  by 
fishing  and  hunting,  which  were  good  at  that 
time  of  year.  As  for  other  provisions,  Whitey 
had  some  money,  and  they  could  buy  them  at 
Jim  town,  on  the  way.  No  one  knew  them  there. 
Whitey  even  planned  getting  a  message  to  Bill 
Jordan  that  he,  Whitey,  was  dead.  Bill  would 
feel  pretty  sorry  then,  at  the  result  of  his  silly 
trick.  And  when  Whitey  thought  Bill  was  sorry 
enough,  he  would  return,  and  advise  Bill  never 
to  be  so  silly  again.  You  see,  he  was  in  a  very 
savage  mood.  He  would  get  over  that,  but  he 
didn't  realize  it  then. 

As  Injun  heard  these  plans,  he  considered 
them.  He  was  very  well  satisfied  where  he  was. 
There  had  been  fighting  there,  there  might  be 
more,  and  he  liked  fighting.  Fishing  and  hunting 
were  all  very  well,  but  he'd  had  a  lot  of  them  in 
his  young  life,  and  they  were  no  novelty.  It  was 
like  asking  a  sailor  to  go  for  a  sail,  on  his  day  off. 
And  Injun  couldn't  fully  understand  Whitey's 
wanting  to  do  all  these  things.  But  do  you  think 
he  voiced  his  objections  to  them?  He  did  not. 
For  in  one  way  Injun  was  like  a  faithful  dog  — 
223 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

he  accepted  things  he  didn't  understand.  So  one 
liked  his  loyalty  more  than  one  pitied  his  igno- 
rance. 

No  one  paid  any  attention  to  the  boys  when 
they  rode  away  from  the  Star  Circle  Ranch. 
They  might  be  going  hunting,  or  just  for  a  ride, 
for  all  the  ranchmen  knew  or  cared.  They  struck 
off  toward  the  northwest,  in  which  direction  lay 
Jimtown,  with  Moose  Lake  far  beyond,  nest- 
ling in  the  foothills  of  the  Rockies. 

It  was  a  beautiful  day,  with  the  haze  of  fall 
shrouding  the  distance,  a  hint  of  brown  tingeing 
the  prairie  grass,  the  sun  a  bit  milder  with  its 
rays  and  paler  in  its  face  than  in  midsummer. 
And  the  old  sun  seemed  a  trifle  lazy,  as  if  lying 
back  awaiting  the  frost  that  would  nip  the  rolling 
mesa,  to  be  followed  by  the  gales  that  would 
sweep  across  it,  then  by  the  whirling  blizzards 
that  would  hold  the  plains  in  their  frigid  grasp. 
Yes,  it  was  a  beautiful  day  —  a  day  on  which  it 
was  very  hard  to  stay  mad. 

Creeping  across  the  northern  distance  the  boys 
saw  two  wagons.  Evidently  they  had  come  from 
Jimtown.  Wagons  are  as  interesting  sights  on  a 
224 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  WEST 

prairie  as  they  are  uninteresting  in  a  city,  so  the 
boys  shifted  their  course  slightly  that  they  might 
investigate.  And  these  were  the  rarest  wagons 
that  crawled  across  the  plains,  for  they  carried 
a  show! 

During  the  many  months  that  Whitey  had 
been  in  the  West  only  one  show  had  come  to  the 
Junction,  and  that  at  a  time  when  Injun  and 
Whitey  had  been  hunting  in  the  mountains. 
Lives  there  a  boy  with  soul  so  dead  that  he  does 
not  hunger  for  a  show?  I  leave  you  to  answer 
that,  and  to  guess  how  hungry  Whitey  was  for 
one. 

But  if  you  have  in  your  mind  any  big,  gilded 
wagons,  with  pictures  of  beautiful  women  on 
their  sides,  and  drawn  by  many  prancing  white 
horses  with  red  plumes  on  their  heads,  get  that 
vision  right  out  of  your  mind.  These  were 
"prairie  schooners,"  covered  with  old,  weather- 
beaten  canvas,  creaking  along  on  wheels  on  which 
mud  had  long  taken  the  place  of  paint,  and 
drawn  by  mules ! 

And  the  only  things  to  indicate  their  character 
were  letters  painted  on  the  old  canvas  sides, 
225 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

where  they  drooped  between  the  wooden  arches 
that  supported  them;  letters  which  read:  "THE 
MILDINI  TROUPE.  PRIDE  OF  THE  WEST."  And 
that  was  enough.  For  everybody  in  that  part  of 
Montana  knew  the  Mildinis.  They  came  once  a 
year  —  if  nothing  happened  to  prevent. 

There  were  three  in  the  company — Mr.  Mil- 
dini,  who  was  short  and  fat,  and  had  a  twinkle 
in  his  eye,  and  had  been  born  Murphy;  Mrs. 
Mildini,  who  was  slim  and  sharp-featured,  and 
whose  eyes  were  bright,  without  any  twinkle  in 
them;  and  Signer  Antolini,  who  was  of  medium 
height  and  rather  thin,  and  had  a  nose  like  a 
hawk,  and  had  been  born  on  Mulberry  Street, 
in  New  York  City.  Two  thirds  of  this  troupe 
remained  the  same,  year  after  year,  but  some- 
times Signor  Antolini  was  Signor  Somebody 
Else. 

This  doesn't  seem  to  offer  much  chance  for 
entertainment,  does  it?  To  Injun  it  was  a  won- 
derful troupe.  To  Whitey,  who  had  been  to  all 
sorts  of  entertainments  in  the  East,  it  was  a 
novelty.  Perhaps  it  would  be  bad  enough  to  be 
good.  Anyway,  it  was  a  show.  Thoughts  of 
226 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  WEST 

revenge  against  Bill  Jordan  could  be  abandoned 
for  the  time  being.  They  would  have  to  wait. 
Meanwhile,  Injun  and  Whitey  would  follow  the 
show. 

Mr.  Mildini,  who  drove  the  first  wagon,  was 
very  friendly,  and  smoked  a  pipe.  Signer  An- 
tolini,  who  drove  the  second  wagon,  was  also 
friendly,  and  smoked  cigarettes.  Mrs.  Mildini, 
who  slept  in  the  first  wagon,  expressed  no  feelings 
at  all.  That  wagon  contained  the  trunks  and 
chattels  of  Mildini  and  wife,  and  in  it  they  made 
their  home.  The  other  wagon  held  the  instru- 
ments and  properties  of  the  show,  the  cooking 
utensils,  and  the  bed  of  Signor  Antolini.  It  was 
all  very  simple,  and  very  fascinating,  when  you 
thought  of  it,  to  be  traveling  around  the  country 
in  the  sunshine,  pausing  at  different  places  to 
entertain  admiring  audiences. 

Where  were  they  from?  From  Jim  town,  where 
they  had  showed  the  night  before.  And  where 
bound?  To  the  Hanley  Ranch,  a  big  wheat 
ranch,  about  twenty  miles  east.  It  was  thresh- 
ing-time there,  and  there  would  be  plenty  of  men 
to  make  an  audience.  Mr.  Mildini  meant  plenty 
227 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

from  his  point  of  view.  A  settlement  of  five 
houses  looked  good  to  him. 

Oh,  yes,  Whitey  knew  the  Hanley  Ranch.  It 
was  fourteen  miles  west  of  the  Bar  O.  Oh,  no, 
Mr.  Mildini  didn't  mind  their  riding  along  with 
the  troupe.  He  was  glad  of  the  company.  They 
could  have  dinner  with  them,  too,  if  they  liked. 
And  perhaps  they  wouldn't  mind  helping  with 
the  stock,  if  they  didn't  make  the  ranch  that 
day,  and  had  to  camp. 

Sometimes  they  had  trouble  with  the  wagons; 
they  were  old.  Sometimes  they  got  stuck  in  the 
mud.  You  never  could  tell.  Yes,  the  show  busi- 
ness was  fascinating,  but  very  uncertain.  Mr. 
Mildini  was  chatty  and  not  a  bit  stand-offish, 
as  one  might  think  a  talented  person  would  be. 

So,  when  that  old  fall  sun  sank  down  toward 
the  west,  it  outlined  two  shabby  wagons,  crawl- 
ing along  the  lonely  prairie.  Near  one  rode  an 
eager  white  boy,  occasionally  leaning  over  and 
drinking  in  the  wisdom  that  fell  from  the  lips  of 
a  little  Irishman;  near  the  other,  a  pink-shirted 
Indian  lad,  stolid  and  silent,  but  in  his  breast 
burning  the  fever  that  stirs  every  boy  who  is 
going  to  a  show. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
WONDERS 

PERHAPS  if  you  were  born  in,  or  have  visited,  a 
great  Eastern  city  you  have  sat  in  an  enormous 
amphitheater,  a  fifth  of  a  mile  in  length,  with 
tiers  and  tiers  of  private  boxes,  and  rows  and 
rows  of  seats.  In  the  sawdust  arena  you  have 
seen  three  circus  rings,  a  performance  going  on 
in  each;  acrobats,  bare-back  riders,  trained  ani- 
mals, what  not;  and  around  the  edge  of  it  all  a 
procession  of  clowns,  doing  their  merry  stunts. 
And  you  have  craned,  strained,  and  twisted  your 
neck,  trying  to  take  it  all  in.  And  that  is  your 
idea  of  a  show. 

In  such  a  place  sat  Whitey,  for  that  was  what 
a  show  recalled  to  his  mind,  but  when  he  opened 
his  eyes,  and  came  away  from  that  mind  circus, 
he  was  in  a  very  different  place. 

Large  it  was  and  barren,  with  rough-boarded 
sides;  with  lofts,  and  stalls,  and  racks,  and  farm- 
ing implements  crowded  into  corners,  and  an 
earthen  floor,  and  —  well,  perhaps  you  have  seen 
229 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

a  big  Western  barn,  which  answers  the  purpose 
of  housing  many  things  and  animals.  Such  was 
the  setting  in  which  the  Mildini  Troupe  per- 
formed; the  Pride  of  the  West! 

Each  individual  of  the  audience  sat  on  what- 
ever he,  or  she,  could  get  to  sit  upon;  a  saddle, 
a  blanket,  a  box,  a  rare  chair  or  two.  Perhaps 
that  audience  would  have  proved  to  you  almost 
as  interesting  as  the  performance,  for  it  was 
made  up  of  many  sorts  of  men  that  the  threshing 
had  brought  together  —  farm-hands,  cowpunch- 
ers,  store-keepers,  blacksmiths,  bartenders, 
hold-up  men,  but  no  sheepherders.  Sheep- 
herders  were  not  welcome  among  threshers,  nor 
in  any  other  Western  community.  Of  women 
there  were  two — the  wife  of  the  foreman  of  the 
ranch,  and  one  who  helped  her. 

No  person  on  the  ranch  was  absent,  for  before 
the  performance  the  Mildinis  had  given  a  sort  of 
sample  of  their  talent;  of  what  all  were  to  expect 
A  tight-rope  had  been  stretched  across  the  Yel- 
lowstone River,  and  on  this,  clad  in  pink  tights, 
balance-pole  in  hand,  Signer  Antolini  had  walked, 
high  over  the  more  or  less  raging  flood. 
230 


WONDERS 


Do  you  ever  tire  of  shows?  I  hope  you  don't. 
I  don't,  and  offhand  I  can't  think  of  many 
people  who  do.  So  I'll  assume  that,  with  Injun 
and  Whitey,  you'd  like  to  see  a  bit  of  this  poor 
little  troupe's  efforts,  which  were  pathetic  in  a 
way,  though  no  one  thought  of  that. 

Whitey  had  been  wondering  what  particular 
talents  Mr.  Mildini  was  master  of,  and  he  found 
that  they  were  many.  He  could  and  did  dance, 
sing,  and  tell  comic  stories  in  a  number  of 
dialects,  all  convulsing.  But  tricks  were  the 
crowning  wonder  of  Mildini's  performance, 
though  he  called  them  "feats  of  magic." 

I'd  hesitate  to  tell  you  the  things  he  could 
take  out  of  a  silk  hat;  live  rabbits,  endless  strips 
of  colored  paper,  jars  of  imitation  goldfish,  and 
many  other  useless  articles.  It  is  true  that  the 
silk  hat  was  his,  no  one  in  the  audience  having 
been  able  to  produce  one,  when  requested  to  do  sc 
but  it  was  passed  freely  among  the  crowd  to  be 
examined ;  to  convince  doubters  that  there  was  no 
"deception."  Endless  eggs  could  Mildini  take 
from  his  mouth,  ears,  hair,  or  from  the  mouth, 
ears,  or  hair  of  any  "gent"  in  the  audience. 
231 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

And  every  one,  from  store-keeper  to  hold-up 
man,  wondered  and  laughed  and  was  pleasantly 
deceived.  And  after  one  of  the  most  difficult 
tricks,  when  a  puncher  said,  "I  wonder  what 
he's  goin'  t'  do  next?"  the  people  near  Whitey 
were  puzzled  when  he  burst  into  laughter. 

Then  there  was  Mrs.  Mildini,  who,  it  seemed, 
was  "Mademoiselle  Therese,"  who  not  only 
could  draw  enchanting  melodies  from  a  violin, 
but  could  make  it  speak  in  the  language  of 
various  barnyard  creatures,  such  as  geese, 
chickens,  pigs  —  oh,  almost  anything.  And  the 
music  she  could  extract  from  one  string —  "one 
string,  mind  you,  ladees  and  gentlemun!"  It 
was  marvelous. 

It  is  true  that  she  introduced  an  element  of 
sadness  in  the  evening  when  she  played  "Home, 
Sweet  Home,"  and  "Way  Down  upon  the  Swanee 
River,"  reducing  even  the  bartenders  and  hold- 
up men  almost  to  tears.  But  possibly  a  touch  of 
the  serious  lends  a  pleasant  contrast  to  merri- 
ment. 

There  remained  Signor  Antolini,  who  was  the 
"World's  Greatest  Contortionist,"  and  who  cer- 
232 


WONDERS 


tainly  could  contort  in  a  manner  to  shame  an 
angleworm :  could  twist  his  slim  body  into  knots 
that  it  would  seem  almost  impossible  to  untie; 
and  could  pass  it  through  a  hoop  through  which 
any  sensible  person  would  be  willing  to  bet  it 
couldn't  go. 

Whitey  had  cause  to  remember  this  talent  of 
the  Signer's,  for  in  after  days  when  Whitey  tried 
to  pass  his  body  through  a  small  hoop,  it  didn't 
pass.  It  held  Whitey  firmly,  in  a  very  painful 
position,  all  twisted  up  like  that.  And  as  no  one 
happened  to  be  near,  it  was  some  time  before 
Whitey 's  yells  brought  Bill  Jordan,  who  cut  the 
hoop  in  two,  and  instead  of  applauding,  laughed. 

And  last  of  all  came  a  little  play  in  which 
the  "entire  company"  took  part,  a  comic  little 
play,  in  which  Signor  Antolini  was  a  professor 
who  was  going  to  teach  Mrs.  Mildini  to  be  an 
actress.  But  they  were  constantly  interrupted 
by  Mr.  Mildini,  who  was  a  funny  darky,  all 
blacked  up.  And  then  it  appeared  that  Mr. 
Mildini  could  play  on  many  instruments;  one 
of  them  a  long  spoon,  which  he  used  as  a  flute. 
There  was  no  end  to  that  man's  talents.  And  to 
233 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

think  he  had  been  so  friendly  and  chatty  with 
Whitey  on  the  plains! 

Well,  once  in  a  while  it's  a  good  thing  to  forget 
that  you  ever  were  a  "city  fellow,"  and  saw 
wonderful  performances,  and  to  be  able  to  enjoy 
a  simple  show  like  this.  And  I  suppose  the 
world  is  a  better  place  for  the  Mildinis  in  it,  who 
travel  through  rough  countries,  and  for  a  little 
while  make  people  forget  the  hardships  of  their 
lives;  lives  sometimes  touched  by  tragedy. 

That's  the  way  Whitey  felt  about  it  when,  for 
the  last  time,  the  troupe  had  left  the  small 
raised  platform  that  had  been  built  at  one  end 
of  the  barn  to  represent  a  stage,  and  had  retired 
to  the  stalls,  which  served  as  dressing-rooms. 

The  men  of  the  audience  were  leaving,  and 
most  of  their  faces  held  traces  of  the  pleasure  the 
Mildinis'  efforts  had  given  them;  others  had 
returned  to  their  usual  hardness.  Among  the 
last  was  one  the  sight  of  whom  caused  Injun  to 
grip  Whitey's  arm  so  forcibly  that  he  almost 
cried  out  with  pain  as  he  was  drawn  back  into 
the  shadows  and  Injun  pointed  out  Henry 
Dorgan. 


CHAPTER  XIX 
THRESHING-TIME 

INJUN  was  a  being  who  ran  more  to  feelings,  tw- 
ins tincts,  than  to  reasons,  and  like  many  persons 
of  that  kind  his  instincts  often  ran  truer  to  form 
than  the  reasons  of  others.  While  Dorgan  was 
not  a  likable  man,  he  was  not  one  whom  every- 
body would  distrust;  he  did  not  have  the  word 
"villain"  printed  on  his  face.  Yet  Injun  thought 
he  was  one,  and  if  asked  for  his  reasons  probably 
could  not  have  told  them. 

You  know  that  Injun  suspected  Dorgan  of 
taking  Whitey  *s  pony,  and  now  Whitey  learned 
for  the  first  time  that  Injun  had  seen  Dorgan 
stealing  away  from  the  sheep  ranch  on  the  night 
of  the  war.  Whitey  wondered  why  Injun  had 
not  told  him  this  before,  but  it  was  not  Injun's 
way  to  tell  everything  he  knew,  even  to  Whitey. 
That  was  one  of  Injun's  charms. 

No  one  ever  had  suspected  Dorgan  of  being  a 
sheepman.  He  might  have  been  at  that  ranch 
as  a  mere  visitor.  Injun  thought  he  went  there 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

on  foot,  after  Monty  had  been  taken  away  from 
him.  It  is  well  known  that  in  the  Old  West 
horse-stealing  was  considered  about  the  worst 
crime  a  man  could  commit,  not  only  because 
of  the  value  of  the  horse,  and  a  man's  being  so 
dependent  on  it,  but  because  the  horse  helped 
to  steal  itself,  as  all  one  had  to  do  was  to  get  on 
it  and  ride  away.  It  never  would  do  to  accuse 
Dorgan  of  the  crime  without  pretty  good  proof. 

Of  course,  it  made  Whitey  wild  to  think  of 
any  one's  stealing  Monty,  and  as  he  and  Injun 
stood  in  a  corner  of  the  barn,  and  talked  the 
matter  over,  they  decided  on  the  following 
course:  they  would  stay  at  the  Hanley  Ranch 
for  a  while;  Dorgan  had  not  seen  them.  If  he 
ran  away  when  he  did  see  them,  that  would  be 
an  indication  of  guilt,  but  no  proof.  But  if 
Dorgan  stayed  on,  the  boys  might  be  able  to  get 
some  proof  of  his  guilt.  He  was  a  dangerous 
man  to  deal  with;  that  made  it  all  the  more 
interesting.  If  they  had  known  how  dangerous 
Dorgan  really  was,  they  might  have  considered 
the  matter  more  seriously. 

The  next  morning  the  Mildini  Troupe  went 

236 


THRESHINO-TIME 


on  its  way  across  the  lonely  prairie,  and  Whitey 
watched  the  departure  with  regret.  He  would 
have  liked  to  travel  farther  with  that  troupe. 

The  owner  of  the  Hanley  Ranch  seldom  came 
there.  He  lived  in  the  East,  leaving  the  affairs 
of  the  place  entirely  in  the  hands  of  a  manager 
named  Gilbert  Steele.  It  was  a  common  saying 
in  that  part  of  the  country  that  "Gil  Steele  was 
as  hard  as  his  name."  He  was  an  ambitious  and 
an  active  man,  and  regarded  every  dollar  wrung 
out  of  the  ranch  for  its  owner  as  a  sort  of 
triumph  for  himself. 

There  are  men  who  are  successful  only  when 
working  for  others;  whose  every  independent 
effort  is  a  failure.  Steele  was  such  a  man,  and 
that  made  him  bitter,  but  none  the  less  energetic. 
He  acted  not  only  as  manager,  but  as  foreman  of 
the  ranch,  which  included  two  sections,  twelve 
hundred  and  eighty  acres.  And  he  had  many 
enemies. 

Perhaps  you  have  wondered  at  that  queer 

audience  in  the  barn,  and  why  threshing- time 

should  bring  it  together.    In  those  days  in  the 

West  threshing-time  was  an  era  of  prosperity, 

237 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

and  twenty-five  or  thirty  men  would  band  to- 
gether and  buy  a  threshing-machine.  They 
owned  plenty  of  horses,  and  they  would  go  from 
ranch  to  ranch  with  this  machine,  and  thresh  the 
grain.  Now,  this  threshing-time  being  of  short 
duration,  it  drew  into  it  men  whose  occupations 
were  entirely  different  at  other  times  of  the 
year.  Hence,  the  bartenders,  hold-up  men,  cow- 
punchers —  whom  it  would  be  fatal  to  ask 
where  they  came  from  —  the  blacksmiths,  and 
the  store-keepers. 

Gil  Steele  had  been  at  the  Bar  O,  so  Whitey 
was  known  to  him,  and  he  supposed  that  the 
boy  had  come  merely  to  see  the  show.  So  Gil 
was  rather  surprised,  the  next  morning,  when 
Whitey  asked  for  a  job  for  himself  and  for  Injun. 

"What  do  you  want  to  work  for?"  Steele  de- 
manded. "Your  father's  got  plenty  o'  money." 

Whitey 's  real  reason  was  that  he  wanted  to  be 
among  the  men  to  watch  Dorgan,  but  he  equivo- 
cated —  which  is  a  pretty  way  of  saying  that  he 
told  a  white  lie. 

"Bill  Jordan  thinks  I'm  a  softy,"  Whitey 
replied.  "He's  trying  to  make  it  so  hard  for  me 
238 


THRESHING-TIME 


that  I'll  be  glad  to  go  back  to  school.  And  I 
want  to  show  Bill  that  I'm  not  afraid  of  work." 
You  see,  there  was  enough  truth  in  this  to  keep 
Whitey 's  conscience  from  aching. 

"All  right,"  said  Steele.  "More  hands  mean 
quicker  work  and  more  money.  But  I  never 
heard  of  an  Injun  wanting  to  work  before." 

"Tame  Injun,"  Injun  said  solemnly,  which 
was  as  near  a  joke  as  he  ever  came  in  the  years 
Whitey  knew  him. 

This  work  came  under  the  head  of  what  a  fel- 
low doesn't  really  have  to  do,  and  everybody 
knows  the  difference  between  that  and  labor 
that  a  fellow  does  have  to  do  —  about  the  same 
difference  that  there  is  between  work  and  fun. 
The  threshing-machine  was  run  by  horse  power. 
You  remember  Felix,  the  jack  that  Whitey  rode 
across  the  prairie,  and  Felix's  job  of  turning  the 
little  grinding-mill?  The  horses  had  the  same 
sort  of  job,  except  that  there  were  teams  of  them, 
revolving  around  a  central  pivot,  that  furnished 
the  power  that  worked  the  great  machine  in 
whose  maw  sheaves  of  wheat  were  fed,  to  come 
out  as  grain. 

239 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

Injun  and  Whitey's  jobs  were  to  hold  the 
sacks  into  which  the  grain  fell.  And  there  they 
worked,  from  sunup  to  sundown,  in  the  heat, 
and  the  dust  from  the  chaff,  with  never  a  mur- 
mur. They  were  happy  because  it  wasn't  work, 
it  was  an  adventure,  with  expectancy  and 
danger  in  it.  And  Gil  Steele  was  happy,  because 
lie  was  practically  getting  the  work  of  two  men 
for  the  pay  of  two  boys. 

The  sleeping  quarters  in  the  Hanley  Ranch 
were  altogether  taken  up  by  the  extra  help  re- 
quired to  feed  the  threshers.  So  the  threshers 
themselves  occupied  tents,  and  it  was  in  one  of 
these  that  Whitey  and  Injun  were  bedded,  much 
to  their  joy.  It  fitted  in  with  their  plans  to 
watch  Dorgan,  and  see  if  they  could  learn  some- 
thing that  would  confirm  their  suspicions  of  him. 

So  far  Dorgan  had  been  an  utter  disappoint- 
ment. Not  only  had  he  refrained  from  beating 
it,  but  he  had  greeted  the  boys  pleasantly  when 
they  met.  As  far  as  outward  appearances  went, 
Dorgan  might  have  been  a  Sunday  school  super- 
intendent. Had  he  been  one  at  hear'/,,  there 
would  be  no  more  story  for  me  to  tell. 
240 


THRESHING-TIME 


But  there  were  times  when  Dorgan  could  be 
forgotten.  With  a  crowd  like  that  gathered  on 
the  Hanley  Ranch,  you  can  imagine  the  yarns 
there  were  to  spin  in  the  long  evenings,  with 
nothing  to  do  but  spin  them.  Perhaps  some  of 
the  tales  those  men  didn't  dare  to  tell  —  the 
secrets  hidden  behind  their  hardened  faces,  the 
faults,  the  crimes,  the  horrors  that  could  have 
been  revealed  —  these  might  have  proved  more 
thrilling  than  the  stories  that  came  forth;  but 
that  is  something  that  neither  you,  nor  Whitey, 
nor  I  will  ever  know. 

The  tales  that  were  told  there  had  the  proper 
setting,  and  if  you  have  thought  much  about 
stories  you  know  what  that  means.  You  tell  a 
ghost  story  late  at  night,  seated  before  a  fire- 
place in  an  old  country  house.  The  only  light 
comes  from  the  flames  of  the  dying  fire  logs  that 
flicker  as  the  wind  howls  down  the  chimney;  the 
only  sounds,  the  beating  of  the  rain  on  the  walls 
and  roof,  and  —  during  the  creepy  pauses  in  the 
yarn  —  the  creakings  that  a  lonely  house  gives 
out  in  the  night  hours.  Tell  that  same  story  on 
a  sun-lighted  June  morning,  in  the  orchard, 
241 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

when  the  trees  are  all  in  blossom.  Oh,  boy!  you 
know  the  difference. 

One  night  when  Whitey  had  been  to  the 
ranch  house  on  an  errand,  he  returned  to  the 
tent  to  find  a  disturbance  going  on.  Dorgan,  who 
slept  in  another  tent,  was  a  visitor.  Somewhere 
he  had  obtained  liquor;  under  its  influence  his 
pleasant  manner  had  fled,  and  he  was  picking  on 
Injun.  The  dislike  that  Dorgan  concealed  during 
his  sober  moments  had  reached  the  point  at 
which  he  demanded  that  Injun  be  put  out  of  the 
tent.  It  was  a  place  for  white  men,  not  for  Injuns. 
Injun  was  not  afraid  of  Dorgan,  and  had  no  idea 
of  leaving,  so  Dorgan  was  going  to  put  him  out. 
Injun  wasn't  going  to  let  Dorgan  put  him  out. 

At  this  moment  Whitey  arrived.  What  would 
have  happened  to  an  unarmed  boy  against  a 
drunken,  armed  man  or  to  two  unarmed  boys, 
for  Whitey  started  to  interfere,  is  something 
else  we  never  shall  know,  for  a  cowboy  put  in  hi? 
oar. 

You  know  that  a  cowboy  remains  a  "boy" 
until  he  is  old  enough  to  die.  This  one  was  sixty, 
and  he  wasn't  a  typical  puncher  at  all.  He  had 
242 


THRESHING-TIME 


a  thin,  hawk-like  face,  steady  gray  eyes,  rather 
long  hair  which  also  was  gray  like  his  moustache 
and  goatee.  He  had  been  a  soldier  and  an  Indian 
fighter,  and  he  looked  it.  As  Dorgan  lurched  to- 
ward the  boys,  who  stood  tense,  with  flashing 
eyes,  and  prepared  for  resistance,  this  cowboy 
stepped  between,  and  spoke  to  Dorgan. 

"I  wouldn't  do  that  if  I  was  you,"  he  said, 
and  he  spoke  in  a  sort  of  drawl,  but  there  didn't 
seem  to  be  any  drawl  in  his  cool,  gray  eyes.  In 
spite  of  his  condition  Dorgan  appeared  to  realize 
this,  for  he  paused  uncertainly.  "I  don't  hold 
myself  up  as  no  defender  o'  Injuns,"  the  old 
puncher  went  on  calmly,  "but  I've  had  a  bit  o' 
truck  with  'em,  fer  an'  ag'inst,  I'm  some  judge 
of  'em,  an*  I  reck'n  this  one  c'n  stay  right  here." 

Dorgan  began  to  stiffen  a  little  and  his  fingers 
clutched,  as  one's  will  when  one  thinks  of  reach- 
ing for  a  gun.  The  other  man  had  a  gun,  too,  but 
he  made  not  the  slightest  movement  toward  it, 
and  he  spoke  even  more  quietly  than  before. 

"If  I  was  you,"  he  repeated,  "bein'  in  th'  c'n- 
dition  you're  in,  I'd  beat  it.  You  may  have  ob- 
jections for  t'  state,  thinkin'  this  ain't  none  o' 
243 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

my  business,  an*  you  c'n  state  'em  now  —  or 
f'rever  hold  your  peace." 

Dorgan  looked  around  the  tent,  as  if  for  moral 
support,  but  didn't  find  any.  A  singular  quiet 
had  fallen  on  the  place;  a  sort  of  disconcerting 
quiet.  A  warning  ray  of  sense  must  have  come 
:nto  Dorgan 's  fuddled  brain  as  he  looked  again 
at  the  old  puncher,  for  without  a  word  he  stum- 
bled out  into  the  darkness. 

"That  was  mighty  fine  of  you,"  Whitey  said 
warmly,  but  the  old  man  didn't  seem  to  hear 
him. 

He  sat  down  and  built  a  cigarette,  and  when 
it  was  lighted  began  to  drawl  between  puffs. 
"  There's  a  lot  o'  folks  that  don't  know  nothin' 
'bout  Injuns,  that  has  a  lot  o*  'pinions  con- 
cernin'  'em,"  he  said.  "They  say  you've  got  t' 
live  with  a  feller  t'  know  him,  but  that  ain't  so. 
You  c'n  find  out  a  lot  by  fightin'  him.  That's 
how  I  got  my  feelin'  for  Injuns,  an'  it's  th'  kind 
you  have  for  a  good  fighter." 

The  incident  with  Dorgan  seemed  to  have 
passed  from  his  mind,  though  Whitey  had  lived 
long  enough  in  the  West  to  know  that  tragedy 
244 


THRESHING-TIME 


had  lurked  near.  The  old  puncher  leaned  back, 
his  hands  behind  his  head,  and  puffed  clouds  of 
smoke  into  the  air.  He  looked  at  the  smoke  as 
though  he  saw  pictures  in  it.  Then  he  carefully 
threw  the  cigarette  down  and  ground  his  heel 
into  it.  As  the  other  men  had  remained  silent 
while  he  was  talking  to  Dorgan,  they  remained 
silent  now. 

He  was  a  product  of  an  epic  time  in  the  West, 
a  time  when  the  others  had  been  boys.  Natur- 
ally a  quiet  man,  he  had  had  little  to  say.  He 
also  was  known  as  a  dangerous  man,  and  when 
a  quiet  and  dangerous  man  seems  inclined  to 
talk,  it  is  sometimes  worth  while  to  wait.  In- 
stead of  speaking,  he  rolled  another  cigarette, 
and  again  looked  into  the  smoke. 

But  presently  the  old  puncher  awoke  from  his 
dream  and  looked  at  the  surrounding  faces, 
some  coarse,  some  wicked,  but  all  attentive,  all 
plainly  inviting  him  to  talk. 

"Yes,  sir,  a  feller  that  was  in  th'  Seventh 

Cavalry,  in  th'  old  days,  got  a  good  many  lessons 

'bout  Injuns,"  he  began.   "An*  if  you  like,  I  c'n 

tell  you  some  things  'bout  th'  biggest  Injun 

245 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

fight  that  ever  happened  in  these  parts,  'cause 
I  was  there." 

So  he  told  the  story,  and  I  shall  leave  out  the 
questions  with  which  it  was  interrupted. 


CHAPTER  XX 
THE  STORY  OF  THE  CUSTER  FIGHT 

"You  know  my  bein'  with  Major  Reno  is  why 
I'm  able  t'  tell  this  story,  'cause  all  th'  Old  Man's 
outfit —  'Old  Man'  bein'  what  we  called  Gen- 
eral Custer  —  was  wiped  out. 

"Us  soldiers  didn't  know  all  th'  ins  an*  outs 
o'  what  was  goin'  on,  but  we  did  know  that  th' 
Old  Man  was  a  whole  lot  dissatisfied.  There'd 
bin  a  lot  o'  talk  'bout  him  havin'  gone  t*  Wash- 
ington, an'  havin'  a  talk  with  President  Grant, 
at  which  interview,  so  'twas  said,  th'  President'd 
told  him  th'  first  duty  of  a  soldier  was  obedience, 
but  we  didn't  know  nothin'  'bout  that  —  whether 
'twas  true  or  'twasn't  true.  All  we  knowed  was 
that  he  was  away  a  long  time,  an'  when  he  come 
back  he  sure  had  fire  in  his  eye. 

"General  Terry  was  in  command  at  old  Fort 
Buford,  an'  when  th'  Injuns  broke  out,  he  was 
in  command  of  all  th'  soldiers  in  that  part  of  th' 
country.  General  Phil  Sheridan  was  his  chief, 
but  we  never  seen  him. 

247 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

"Well,  when  the  Injuns  broke  loose,  Terry  he 
thought  as  it  was  th'  spring  o'  th'  year,  it  was  a 
good  time  t'  get  'em.  So  'bout  th'  first  o*  June, 
'76,  all  th'  get-ready  stuff  was  gone  over,  an*  all 
th'  good-byes  was  said  with  them  as  had  fam- 
blies,  an*  we  was  loaded  onto  th'  steamer  Far 
West,  an*  headed  down  th'  old  Missouri. 

"When  we  got  to  th'  mouth  o'  th*  Yellow- 
stone it  was  June  twenty-first.  We  unloaded. 
An*  General  Terry  says  t'  our  Old  Man  — 
don't  forget  we  just  called  him  that;  General 
Custer  was  only  thirty-eight  years  old  —  Terry 
says,  'You  take  your  Seventh  men  an*  scout 
ahead  an*  let  Charlie  Reynolds  go  ahead  o'  you.' 
'Cause  everybody  knowed  that  Charlie  Reynolds 
savvied  Injuns  an'  Injun  ways  better'n  any 
white  man  that  ever  lived  —  him  that  was 
known  as  'Lonesome  Charlie.' 

"An'  Terry  he  says  t'  Custer,  our  Old  Man, 
'When  you  get  t'  th'  Little  Big  Horn  country 
you  wait  for  me,  as  I'm  travelin'  heavy.  I'll  be 
four  days  makin'  it.' 

"An'  again  says  Terry  t'  our  Old  Man:  'If 
you  see  any  Injuns  in  force,  halt  an'  stay  there 
248 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  CUSTER  FIGHT 

till  I  come  up,  but  don't  start  any  fight  unless 
they  force  it  on  you,  an*  if  they  do  force  it  on 
you,  fight  on  th'  defensive*  —  which,  as  you  all 
know,  is  backin'  up.  'Fight  on  th'  defensive  till 
I  come  up  with  you,  an*  then  we'll  give  'em  hell.' 

"Our  Old  Man  he  said,  'You  bet,'  an'  we  left. 

"General  Custer  he  was  in  command,  an* 
Colonel  Benteen  an'  Major  Reno  was  his  officers. 
After  doin'  twenty  or  thirty  miles  in  th'  saddle, 
we  was  sure  a  s'prised  bunch  o'  rookies  when  we 
didn't  stop.  We  didn't  stop.  No,  siree!  Wekep' 
right  on  a-goin'.  We  didn't  stop  when  we  hit 
forty  miles,  nor  sixty  miles,  nor  eighty  miles. 
It  was  ninety  miles  from  where  we  left  Terry 
when  th'  Old  Man  said,  'Coffee  an'  biscuits,'  an' 
believe  me,  we  wanted  'em  bad. 

"We'd  bin  in  th'  saddle  for  twenty-two  hours, 
an'  if  you  don't  think  that's  ridin',  try  it  some- 
time. The  hosses  was  all  in.  My  hoss  —  'Long 
Tom'  I  called  him  —  he  laved  down  as  soon  as  I 
off-saddled  him,  an'  stuck  his  face  into  his  nose- 
bag an'  eat  layin'  down.  First  time  I  ever  seen 
a  hoss  do  that. 

"Charlie  Reynolds,   he  was   ahead,   an'   he 
249 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

come  back  an*  had  a  pow-wow  with  th'  Old  Man 
an*  Reno  an*  Benteen,  an*  we  seen  'em  workin' 
th'  field  glasses  overtime.  'Course,  we  didn't 
know  what  was  bein'  said,  or  what  was  goin'  on. 
All  we  c'd  see  was  that  they  was  mighty  excited 
like.  All  except  Charlie.  He  musta  had  his  say 
an*  then  stopped  —  Injun  like.  'Cause  Charlie, 
he  was  just  a  white  Injun. 

"I  got  Lieutenant  Hodgson  to  let  me  have  a 
peep  through  his  glasses.  After  a  ride  like  that, 
in  a  Injun  country,  a  regular  c'n  be  quite  on 
speakin*  terms  with  his  officers,  an*  when  I 
looked  through  them  glasses  what  I  seed  didn't 
mean  much  t'  me.  'Way  off,  down  by  th'  river, 
was  some  tepees  an*  stuff  layin'  'round,  just  like 
it  was  a  Injun  camp.  That's  what  it  looked  like 
t'  me,  an'  that's  what  I  found  out  afterwards  was 
what  it  looked  like  t'  th'  Old  Man. 

"Benteen  an'  Reno,  they  wasn't  expressiri* 
much  opinion,  as  they  was  expectin'  t'  stay 
right  where  they  was  an'  wait  devel'pments, 
like  Terry  said  they  was  t'  do,  but  th'  Old  Man, 
he  said,  'Attack!'  An'  right  there  was  where 
Charlie  Reynolds  come  in. 
250 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  GLISTER  FIGHT 


"He  says  that  th'  Injun  village  was  a  decoy; 
that  he  c'd  tell  by  th'  stuff,  th'  buffalo  robes 
an*  all,  that  was  layin'  'round;  that  there  was 
eight  thousand  fightin'  Injuns  in  that  part 
of  th'  country,  an*  that  it  was  a  safe  bet  that 
seven  thousand  nine  hundred  an'  ninety-nine 
was  layin'  right  in  behind  them  hog-backs  —  low 
hills  —  a-waitin'  for  us. 

"But  th'  Old  Man  was  mad.  He  was  out  t'  do 
somethin'  an'  he  was  a-goin'  t'  do  it.  An'  he  says, 
*  You're  all  wrong,  but  we're  goin*  t*  attack, 
anyhow.' 

"An'  Charlie  he  says  somethin',  an'  walks 
away,  an'  I  seen  th'  Old  Man  starin'  an'  glarin', 
an'  I  says  t'  m'self,  'When  we  git  back  t'  th' 
Fort  it's  a  court-martial  for  Charlie,  sure.'  An* 
then  it  all  happened. 

"Boots  an'  saddles,  an'  we  that  was  so  all-in 
we  c'd  just  stretch  out  an'  groan  with  tiredness, 
was  up  an'  on  th'  move.  My  hoss,  Long  Tom, — 
an'  he  was  as  game  a  animal  as  ever  lived,  — just 
wavered  an'  swayed  when  I  hit  th'  saddle.  Gee, 
boys !  we  was  sure  an  all-in  bunch ! 

"Why  did  th'  Old  Man  do  it?  How  in  thunder 
251 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 


do  I  know  ?  He  just  done  it.  I'm  supposin'  he  was 
sort  o'  smartin'  under  them  stay-back  orders  he 
had,  an*  such  like,  an*  just  nachally  cut  th'  cable; 
same  as  Admiral  Dewey  done  at  Manila  Bay, 
only  Dewey,  he  won  out,  an*  our  Old  Man  — 
well,  that's  th'  story. 

"But  just  to  digress  or  switch  off,  or  whatever 
that  big  word  is,  for  a  minute.  I  want  t'  say  that 
our  Old  Man,  whatever  his  faults  was,  —  an'  I 
guess  he  had  a-plenty, — he  was  game.  He  was 
a  fighter.  He  said,  'Come  ahead,'  every  time: 
he  never  said,  'Go  ahead.'  An'  if  all  th'  boys 
layin'  out  there  on  th'  prairie  in  their  graves 
c'd  tell,  I'm  bettin'  my  six-shooter  ag'in'  what 
you  all  know  about  th'  Rooshian  langwidge  that 
they'd  say  as  how  th'  Old  Man  died  with  a  sword 
in  one  hand  an'  a  gun  in  th'  other,  a-lookin' 
right  into  th'  sun. 

"Well,  we  made  a  wide  circle  —  a  detower  — 
an'  come  up  ag'in  'way  behind  th'  village,  an' 
right  there  th'  Old  Man  made  his  great  mistake. 
I  ain't  blamin'  him  none,  but  it  sure  shows  how 
a  big  man  c'n  lose  his  head  just  by  bein'  crazy 
mad  an'  wantin'  t'  fight.  Even  th'  rookies,  what 
252 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  CUSTER  FIGHT 

had  seen  a  lot  o'  service,  knowed  that  he  was 
makin'  himself  liable  —  an'  him  a  general  —  t' 
be  called  up  on  a  drumhead  court-martial. 

"There  he  was,  a  thousand  miles  from  any- 
where, dividin*  his  force  in  th*  face  of  a  superior 
enemy.  An*  that  enemy  th'  greatest  fighters 
that  ever  th'  sun  shined  on.  You  know  we  men 
that  fighted  Injuns  knows  what  they  was  made 
of.  All  this  talk  'bout  Injuns  not  bein'  fighters, 
an*  not  bein'  game,  an*  one  white  man  bein'  as 
good  as  ten  Injuns,  makes  me  feel  like  th'  organ- 
grinder  Dago  what  said,  'It  makes  me  sick,  an' 
makes  th'  monkey  sick,  too!' 

"Well,  to  git  back.  Gee,  you  fellers'll  thm> 
I'm  a  Williams  J.  Bryant  runnin'  f'r  President. 
Notice  I  said  runnin'!  No,  I  ain't  tryin'  t'  be 
funny.  I  just  wish  I  could  be.  It'd  sort  o'  take 
th'  weight  off  th'  awfulness  of  what  I  remember 
as  what  happened,  an'  what  I  can't  tell  right 
'cause  I  ain't  got  eddication  an'  brains  enough. 

"Th'  Old  Man,  he  split  us  up,  him  takin' 

companies  C,  E,  F,  I,  and  L,  givin'  Benteen  four 

companies    an'    Reno    three    companies.     He 

ordered  Reno  t'  go  t'  th'  left  an'  cross  th'  Little 

253 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

Big  Horn  an*  attack,  th'  Injuns  from  th'  rear. 
Benteen  he  told  t*  go  straight  ahead,  an*  he  him- 
self took  th'  right.  I  was  with  Reno,  an*  I  saw 
personal  what  he  was  up  ag'inst.  We  crossed  th' 
Little  Big  Horn  an'  went  right  into  what  seemed 
a  million  warriors. 

"I  was  right  alongside  of  Lieutenant  Hodgson, 
Lieutenant  Mclntosh,  an*  Doctor  De  Wolf  when 
they  fell,  an*  I  see  Charlie  Reynolds  —  he'd  re- 
fused t'  go  with  th'  Old  Man  —  put  up  a  fight 
that  if  I  was  a  artist,  an'  c'd  draw  pictures,  I 
c'd  make  a  fortune  puttin'  it  on  paper.  He 
started  with  a  Springfield,  then  went  to  his  six- 
shooter,  an'  wound  up  with  a  knife  before  he 
went  down  with  a  bullet  through  his  heart  an* 
at  least  a  dozen  Injuns  piled  all  'round  him. 
Suicide,  I  reck'n  it  was.  He  knowed  he  was  right, 
but  he  also  knowed  he'd  disobeyed  orders,  an' 
he  just  kept  pilin'  right  in  till  he  got  his. 

"Reno  done  th'  only  thing  he  could  do.  He 
retreated  back  across  th'  river,  an'  got  up  ag'in' 
a  bluff  'bout  three  hunderd  feet  high.  Reno  Hill, 
they  call  it  now.  An'  there  we  fought  for  five  or 
six  hours,  when  Benteen,  who'd  bin  fightin'  in 
254 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  CUSTER  FIGHT 

th'  center,  heard  heavy  firm'  over  on  his  right 
where  Custer  was.  An*  Ben  teen,  he  bein*  a 
honest-t'-God  Injun  fighter,  he  knowed  that 
Custer  was  gone,  so  he  fought  his  way  through 
to  us,  knowin'  that  we  had  th'  hill  behind  us. 

"An*  for  three  days  we  kept  goin' —  not 
runnin',  just  standin'  an'  layin'  down  there 
fightin'.  Sure,  we  stopped  firin'  at  night,  but  we 
didn't  stop  work.  We  dug  all  night  long,  usin' 
knives,  tin  cups,  an'  plates  instead  o'  spades  an* 
picks,  makin'  breast-works;  an'  then  we  started 
fightin'  all  over  ag'in  in  th'  mornin'. 

"Say,  boys,  I  ain't  strong  f'r  prohibition.  It'd 
take  me  ten  years  t'  git  up  nerve  enough  t'  put 
my  foot  on  a  brass  rail  an'  order  sody-water  in  a 
drug  store,  but  let  me  tell  you  somethin'.  On 
th'  afternoon  o'  that  second  day's  fightin'  there 
was  nothin'  on  earth  to  us  like  water.  Th' 
wounded  was  beggin'  for  it.  Oh,  boys,  they  was 
beggin'  for  it  somethin'  pitiful,  an'  we  that  was- 
n't wounded,  our  tongues  was  all  swollen  an'  our 
lips  was  parched  till  they  cracked  open.  So  some 
of  th'  boys  volunteered  t'  go  to  th'  river,  an'  we 
took  canteens  an'  camp  kettles  an'  started. 
255 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

"One  of  us  never  come  back,  an*  a  lot  of  us 
got  shot  up,  but  we  got  water.  Not  much,  but 
we  got  water.  I  never  will  forget  how  I  wanted 
t'  wet  my  hoss,  Long  Tom's,  tongue,  but  a 
wounded  bunkie  he  needed  it.  That  night  we 
went  ag'in  an*  got  some  for  th'  stock,  an'  it  was 
just  in  time,  for  they  sure  was  dyin'  for  it. 

"Th'  fightin'  opened  ag'in  next  mornin',  an* 
kept  goin'  till  th'  afternoon.  It  was  th'  twenty- 
seventh  o'  June,  when  all  at  once  we  seen  a  panic 
start  among  th'  Injuns,  an'  they  began  t'  stam- 
pede, leavin'  their  dead  all  over  th'  hills.  An' 
Terry  come  into  sight,  an*  strong  men  cried  on 
each  other's  necks  —  an'  I  ain't  a  bit  ashamed 
t'  say  that  I  was  one  of  'em. 

"When  Terry  got  in,  an'  congra  tula  tin*  an' 
hand-shakin'  was  all  over,  Lieutenant  Bradley 
he  come  in,  sayin'  he'd  found  Custer,  an'  we  all 
dragged  ourselves  to  th'  spot. 

"There  they  was,  all  dead,  two  hunderd  an' 
sixty-one  of  'em.  Not  one  lived  t'  tell  th'  tale. 
Them  that'd  bin  deployed  as  skirmishers  lay  as 
they  fell,  havin'  bin  entirely  surrounded  in  an 
open  plain.  The  men  in  th'  companies  fell  in 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  CUSTER  FIGHT 

platoons,  an',  like  them  on  th'  skirmish  line,  lay 
just  as  they  fell,  with  their  officers  behind  'em  in 
th'  right  places. 

"TV  Old  Man,  General  Custer,  was  in  th' 
middle,  an'  round  him  lay  th'  bodies  of  Captain 
Tom  Custer  an'  Boston  Custer,  his  brothers, 
Colonel  Calhoun,  his  brother-in-law,  an'  young 
Reed,  his  nephew.  An'  right  near  was  Mark 
Kellogg,  th'  Bismarck  Tribune's  newspaper  man. 
He  wasn't  scalped  or  touched;  just  lay  as  he  fell. 

"Kellogg  savvied  Injuns,  an'  used  t'  say  in 
his  paper,  'Hold  on  a  minute,  let's  talk  this 
over,'  when  all  th'  long-whiskered  grangers, 
what  had  come  in  from  Illinois,  would  raise  a 
holler,  an'  want  th'  United  States  soldiers  t' 
kick  th'  Injuns  off  th'  land  what  they  owned. 
An*  th'  Injuns  remembered,  even  when  they  was 
crazy  with  nghtin'.  An'  just  th'  same  as  they 
didn't  touch  th'  White  Chief,  Custer,  just  th' 
same  they  didn't  touch  th'  feller  what  shoved  a 
lead  pencil  an'  once  in  a  while  said,  'Give  'em  a 
chance.' 

"Did  they  ever  find  out  how  many  Injuns  was 
there?  Not  defnite,  but  near  enough.  On  th' 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

tenth  annivers'ry  of  th'  fight  th'  survivors  held 
a  reunion  on  th'  battle-field,  an*  bein'  as  I  was 
line-ridin'  for  Tracy's  Tumble  H  outfit  at  th' 
time,  I  sneaked  off  an*  went  over. 

"They'd  done  a  wonderful  thing;  somethin* 
that'd  never  bin  done  before,  an'  most  likely 
never'll  be  done  ag'in.  Dave  Barry  —  him  as 
th'  Injuns  called  'th'  Shadow  Catcher'  —  was 
a  great  friend  o'  Charlie  Reynolds,  Barry  speakin' 
Injun  talk,  an'  bein'  adopted  into  th'  tribe,  an' 
sawyin'  Injun  ways  just  th'  same  as  Charlie 
did.  An'  Dave  wanted  t'  get  the  real  dope  on  th' 
fight  on  Charlie's  account,  an'  him  bein'  also  a 
close  friend  of  old  John  Gall,  th'  chief  what  led 
th'  Injuns  in  th'  big  fight. 

"Now,  Barry  he  persuaded  —  nobody  knows 
how  he  done  it  —  he  persuaded  John  Gall  t' 
go  along  t'  this  reunion.  An'  then,  as  if  one 
miracle  wasn't  enough,  he  pulled  another.  By 
golly,  he  got  th'  old  man  t'  make  a  talk.  Boys, 
it  sure  was  some  picture,  on  that  June  evenin', 
t'  see  that  Injun  when  th'  blanket  fell  off  his 
shoulders,  standin'  like  one  o'  them  bronze  stat- 
utes, with  th'  settin'  sun  a-hittin'  him.  I  sure 
258 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  CUSTER  FIGHT 

never  will  forget  it.  Old  Gall,  he  pointed  here 
an*  there,  showin'  where  Rain-in-th'-Face  was, 
an*  where  Crazy  Hoss  was,  an*  where  Crow  King 
was  —  an*  all  th'  rest  of  th'  other  chiefs. 

"An*  then  Barry,  who  was  interpretin'  for  th' 
old  Injun,  asked  him  quiet-like,  in  th'  Injun 
lingo,  'How  many  of  you  was  there,  John?' 
An'  th'  old  Injun  he  paused  like,  while  every  one 
waited  t'  hear,  an'  then  he  pointed  to  th'  ground, 
an'  said  some  Injun  words.  An'  Barry,  he  said 
in  that  quiet,  firm,  even  voice  o'  his'n,  'We  were 
like  the  blades  of  grass  on  the  ground.'  So  you 
see  what  th'  old  Seventh  was  up  ag'inst,  boys. 

"A  mighty  funny  thing  happened  after  th' 
talk.  You  all  know  Will  Curley.  He's  s'posed 
t'  be  th'  only  survivor  of  Custer's  men.  No,  I 
ain't  sure  he  is.  How  should  I  know?  I  wasn't 
there,  I  was  with  Reno,  two  miles  away.  Well, 
th'  bunch  sorta  interduced,  or  tried  t'  interduce, 
Old  John  t'  Will  Curley. 

"Will  Curley  had  somehow  got  himself  a 
brand-new  Stetson,  in  celebration  of  th'  oc- 
casion, an'  when  Barry  said,  in  Injun  talk, 
'John,  this  is  Will  Curley,'  Old  John  he  never 
259 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

moved  a  muscle,  but  his  eyes  looked  like  forked 
lightnin'.  You  know,  Curley  is  a  Crow  —  th' 
perpetual  enemy  of  th'  Sioux  —  an*  in  addition 
t'  that,  Curley  he  was  a  scout  for  th'  whites. 
Old  Gall  he  walked  slowly  over  t'  Curley,  with 
a  walk  that  made  me  think  o'  nothin'  else  on 
earth  but  a  painter,  an'  when  he  got  t'  Will  he 
paused,  with  everybody  holdin'  their  breath  t' 
see  what'd  happen,  an'  then  it  did  happen ! 

"Th'  old  man  reached  out  an'  took  that 
brand-new  Stetson  off  Will  Curley 's  head,  an* 
shook  it  an*  knocked  it  on  all  sides,  an*  put  it  on 
his  own  head  an"  walked  away.  Insultin'! —  all 
I  c'n  say  is,  if  it  ever  happened  t'  me,  it'd  be  my 
dyin'  wish  that  I'd  have  a  gun  in  each  hand." 

A  few  moments  of  silence  followed  the  old  cow- 
puncher's  story.  In  reciting  this  page  from  the 
book  of  his  life  he  had  lost  thought  of  his  sur- 
roundings, but  now  he  remembered,  and  seemed 
startled  at  having  talked  so  much.  He  retired 
within  himself,  his  eyes  taking  on  an  intro- 
spective look  as  though,  as  one  of  the  boys  ex- 
pressed it,  "he  was  tellin'  stories  t'  himself." 
260 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  CUSTER  FIGHT 

He  paid  no  heed  to  the  comments  the  men 
made  on  his  story  of  the  Custer  fight.  It  had 
impressed  them  because  it  had  rung  true.  The 
comments  were  made  in  murmurs  or  whispers. 
As  Injun  had  sat  during  the  tale  he  sat  now; 
stolid,  expressionless.  Now  and  then  Whitey 
stole  a  look  at  him.  In  his  mind  Whitey  was 
connecting  the  old  puncher's  story  with  the  one 
Injun  had  told  in  the  bunk  house  at  the  Bar  O, 
and  with  what  Bill  Jordan  had  said  afterwards; 
that  Injun  had  revealed  the  start  or  source  of  the 
greatest  Indian  fight  the  country  ever  knew. 

It  had  been  a  hard  day,  and  one  by  one  the 
men  dropped  off  to  sleep,  until  only  Whitey  and 
the  old  puncher  were  left,  he  rolling  an  oc- 
casional cigarette,  and  living  in  that  past  which 
the  events  of  the  night  had  brought  back  to  him. 
Whitey  realized  this,  and  had  to  admit  that  it 
was  a  pretty  exciting  place  in  which  to  live.  And 
he  wondered  if  the  old  puncher  would  like  to 
have  another  page  in  his  book  of  life;  a  sort  of 
explanatory  page,  like  the  key  in  an  arithmetic. 

It  was  almost  dark  in  the  tent.  Only  one 
lighted  lantern  hung  from  a  pole.  And  in  low 
261 


INJUN  AND  WHTIEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

tones,  so  as  not  to  disturb  the  sleepers,  Whitey 
told  the  old  man  the  story  of  Injun's  mamma's 
brother  and  his  friend  the  scout;  and  of  the 
White  Chief,  and  the  dance,  and  the  arrest  and 
the  escape;  and  of  Injun's  father's  resolve  that 
"we  fight  heap!" 

The  old  puncher  didn't  know  who  these  In- 
dians were  of  whom  Whitey  was  talking,  but  he 
listened  politely  at  first  and  interestedly  at  last. 
And  when  Whitey  had  finished  the  story,  he 
added,  "Injun's  uncle  was  old  Rain-in-the-Face, 
and  he  was  a  great  friend  of  Charlie  Reynolds, 
the  scout." 

Then  Whitey  crept  off  to  bed,  and  allowed 
the  old  man  to  figure  out  in  his  mind  —  as  Bill 
Jordan  had  done  —  the  start  of  "  the  doggonedest 
Injun  fight  this  country  ever  knowed!"  And  far 
into  the  night  the  old  cowpuncher  thought  of 
this  other  page,  added  to  the  book  that  was  to 
entertain  him  as  he  went  down  the  steeper  side 
of  the  hill  of  life. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

UNREST 

THE  second  and  last  week  of  the  threshing  at  the 
Hanley  Ranch  was  well  on  its  way,  and  nothing 
had  occurred  to  break  the  routine  of  hard  work 
in  the  daytime  and  nights  spent  in  a  tent,  in  an 
atmosphere  laden  with  tobacco  smoke  and  the 
yarns  of  rough  men. 

The  boys  had  not  succeeded  in  confirming 
their  suspicions  against  Henry  Dorgan,  and  if 
Dorgan  felt  any  resentment  against  them,  or 
against  the  old  cowpuncher  who  had  defended 
them,  he  failed  to  show  it. 

Whitey  now  discovered  a  new  trait  in  his 
friend  Injun  —  persistence.  Injun  was  very 
determined  in  his  efforts  to  get  something  on 
Dorgan.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  that  Dorgan 
had  stolen  Monty,  and  his  mind  was  not  like  a 
bed  that  could  be  unmade  easier  than  it  could 
be  made  up.  At  first  Whitey  thought  that  this 
was  a  phase  of  the  Indian's  well-known  desire 
for  vengeance,  but  Injun  didn't  seem  to  be  vin- 
263 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

dictive  in  the  matter.  He  didn't  even  mention 
Dorgan's  attempt  to  put  him  out  of  the  tent. 
Whitey  was  interested  in  this  trait  of  Injun's 
and  liked  him  the  more  for  it.  If  Injun  was  a 
stick-to-itive  fellow,  so  was  Whitey.  He  would 
show  Bill  Jordan  that  he  couldn't  make  a  fool 
of  him  and  get  away  with  it. 

And  finally,  as  a  reward  of  perseverance,  Injun 
did  get  something  on  Dorgan,  though  it  didn't 
amount  to  much.  Injun  averred,  and  it  may 
have  been  true,  that  Monty  had  a  deadly  fas- 
cination for  Dorgan;  that  when  Monty  was 
around,  Dorgan  couldn't  keep  his  eyes  off  him. 
And  Injun  said  that  he  saw  Dorgan  approach 
Monty  in  the  corral,  probably  to  admire  him 
more  closely,  and  that  Monty  showed  great 
hatred  for  Dorgan;  laid  back  his  ears  and  bit 
and  kicked  at  Dorgan. 

"Him  no  like  um.  Him  must  know  urn,"  de- 
clared Injun,  being  firmly  convinced  that  Mon- 
ty's actions  indicated  a  close  acquaintance  with 
Dorgan. 

However,  Monty  couldn't  give  any  spoken 
evidence  that  Dorgan  had  stolen  him,  so  there 

264 


UNREST 


the  matter  rested.  And  there  was  something 
else  to  occupy  the  boys'  minds.  There  seemed 
to  be  a  vague  feeling  of  unrest  at  the  ranch. 
There  always  had  been  bad  blood  between  Gil 
Steele  and  the  workers.  He  not  only  was  a  hard 
taskmaster,  getting  the  last  ounce  of  work  out 
of  the  men,  but  he  was  close  in  money  matters, 
and  had  all  sorts  of  fines  and  penalties  he  im- 
posed when  the  men  were  late  or  neglected  their 
work.  There  was  continual  wrangling  and 
haggling. 

With  this  sort  of  thing  on  the  surface  you  will 
understand  that  it  would  be  easy  to  stir  up  more 
serious  trouble  from  underneath,  and  something 
of  the  sort  was  going  on.  It  was  something 
Whitey  couldn't  put  his  hand  on,  but  he  could 
read  it  in  signs  shown  by  some  of  the  men.  And 
there  were  mysterious  meetings  and  gatherings 
of  the  disaffected  ones. 

Of  course,  Injun  was  quick  to  sense  all  this, 
and  had  no  scruples  about  butting  in  and  finding 
out  all  about  the  trouble.  As  bad  examples  are 
as  catching  as  good  ones,  and  more  so,  Whitey 
joined  Injun  in  his  investigations.  So  behold/ 

265 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

A  dark  night  on  the  prairie.  A  tent  showing 
only  a  streak  of  yellow  light  where  the  opening 
folds  did  not  quite  meet.  Two  boys  lying  on 
their  stomachs  near  the  edge  of  the  tent,  indus- 
triously listening. 

This  was  not  their  own  tent.  There  seemed  to 
be  few  grumblers  in  that.  It  was  the  tent  in 
which  Henry  Dorgan  was  housed.  And  listen  as 
they  might,  and  sharp  as  Injun's  ears  were,  they 
heard  nothing  definite.  Just  murmurs,  an  oc- 
casional oath  or  two,  and  what  might  have  been 
threats,  in  louder  tones.  It  was  very  discourag- 
ing. So  at  last  they  returned  to  their  own  tent,  to 
the  yarn-spinning  threshers  and  the  silent  old 
cowpuncher. 

Whitey  soon  gave  up  this  form  of  effort,  but 
Injun  did  not;  possibly  because  Dorgan  was  in 
the  other  tent.  Friday  night  came,  almost  the 
last  of  the  threshing.  Injun  was  absent  on  his 
eavesdropping  quest,  which  so  far  had  yielded 
nothing.  The  men  in  Whitey's  tent  were  merrier 
than  usual  and,  it  must  be  admitted,  more  pro- 
fane. Then  along  came  bad  luck,  in  the  person 
of  Mrs.  Gilbert  Steele. 

266 


UNREST 


Mrs.  Steele,  you  must  know,  was  one  of  these 
motherly  women  who  didn't  have  anything  to 
mother.  She  was  stout,  round-faced,  good- 
natured,  and  industrious;  quite  the  opposite  to 
her  rather  cold-blooded  husband.  And  this 
matter  of  her  not  having  anything  to  mother 
was  responsible  for  many  things,  as  you  shall 
learn.  Threshing-time  was  rush  time  with  her. 
She  had  few  chances  to  think  of  anything  except 
food,  but  this  night  she  happened  to  have  a  little 
leisure,  and  had  devoted  it  to  consideration  of 
Whitey.  "That  poor  boy  out  in  that  tent  with 
all  those  rough  men.  Why  didn't  I  think  of  him 
before?" 

So  Mrs.  Steele  had  waddled  out  to  the  tent, 
and  had  arrived  at  a  moment  when  there  was  a 
particularly  strong  outburst  of  profanity  on  the 
part  of  one  of  the  rough  men.  Though  this  was 
nipped  in  the  bud  as  Mrs.  Steele  entered  the 
tent,  it  caused  her  to  reproach  herself  more 
bitterly  than  before.  She  promptly  took  Whitey 
under  her  wing  and  told  him  that,  crowded  as 
the  ranch  house  was,  a  place  there  should  be 
found  for  him  to  sleep. 

267 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

Whitey  was  greatly  taken  aback.  Of  course 
he  didn't  want  to  go.  He  thought  it  made  him 
look  foolish  in  the  eyes  of  the  men,  and  it  did. 
He  thought  he  might  get  out'bf  it  by  explaining 
to  Mrs.  Steele,  and  he  didn't.  Perhaps  that  lady 
believed  that  Injun's  morals  were  swear-proof, 
or  that  he  didn't  have  any,  for  she  didn't  men- 
tion him.  And  to  crown  Whitey 's  annoyance  and 
chagrin,  just  as  he  was  being  led  away  to  the 
darned  old  house  Injun  appeared.  And  his  face 
was  lighted  up  —  for  Injun's.  And  his  eyes  were 
shining  with  an  unholy  light.  For  he  had  heard* 
something ! 

There  would  have  been  another  story  to  tell 
if  Injun  had  acted  differently.  But  in  the  first 
place  he  was  an  Indian,  and  it  was  not  in  his 
blood  to  follow  any  fat  white  woman  and  rescue 
a  boy  from  her  clutches.  In  the  next  place  he 
was  Injun;  he  had  his  own  personality.  We 
Caucasians  are  apt  to  think  that  because  the 
red  and  yellow  people  look  pretty  much  alike, 
they  all  are  alike.  Then  when  we  come  to  know 
them,  and  find  that  they  have  as  many  differ- 
ences as  we  have,  we  are  rather  surprised.  This 
268 


UNREST 


may  be  conceited  of  us,  but  it  is  natural.  You 
probably  know  by  now  that  Injun  was  a  very 
independent  person.  So  he  started  off  to  take 
charge  of  affairs  himself. 

Meanwhile  Whitey,  feeling  much  like  a  fool, 
and  possibly  looking  like  one  had  there  been 
light  enough  to  see,  was  being  led  to  the  ranch 
house.  Arrived  there  and  seated  in  the  living- 
room,  motherly  Mrs.  Steele  apologized  for  not 
thinking  of  him  before,  and  surrounding  him 
with  all  the  comforts  of  home,  away  from  those 
vulgar  men.  She  was  inclined  to  be  proud  of 
herself  for  having  done  so  at  this  late  hour.  Had 
she  known  what  Whitey  was  thinking  about  the 
comforts  of  home  and  about  her,  she  would  not 
have  been  so  proud. 

For  a  while  she  entertained  Whitey  by  talking 
about  New  York,  which  she  had  visited  ten  years 
before,  when  on  her  honeymoon.  She  was  sur- 
prised to  learn  that  Whitey  had  not  even  heard 
of  any  of  the  people  she  had  met  there,  he  having 
been  born  in  New  York  and  having  lived  there 
the  first  fourteen  years  of  his  life.  Well,  well;  it 
was  a  queer  world,  anyway.  Perhaps  you  will 

269 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

get  the  best  idea  of  how  unhappy  Whitey  was 
by  imagining  yourself  in  the  same  position. 

In  his  misery  Whitey  formed  vague  plans  for 
escape.  Then  a  new  horror  awaited  him.  He 
was  to  sleep  in  the  Steeles'  bedroom,  in  a  cot  at 
the  foot  of  their  bed !  In  vain  he  protested  that 
the  living-room  floor  was  good  enough  for  him. 
Mrs.  Steele  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  So  he  was  shown 
into  the  bedroom,  and  when  he  was  undressed 
and  clothed  in  one  of  Gil  Steele's  long  white 
night-shirts,  Mrs.  Steele  returned  and  took  his 
clothes  away  to  brush  them! 

Whitey's  cup  of  bitterness  was  full.  This  was 
a  fine  position  for  a  hero  to  be  in.  He  tried  the 
sour-grapes  idea:  perhaps  Injun  hadn't  learned 
anything  that  amounted  to  anything,  after  all. 
But  that  didn't  work.  There  were  no  two  ways 
about  it,  he  was  an  abused  being.  By  golly,  this 
was  worse  than  school !  But  after  working  hard 
all  day  in  the  hot  sun,  even  an  abused  being  will 
get  sleepy.  So  at  last  the  curtain  of  sleep  fell  on 
Whitey;  of  dreamless  sleep  —  perhaps  he  was 
too  mad  to  dream. 


CHAPTER  XXII 
THE  NEW  ORDER 

AT  midnight  Whitey  was  awakened;  awakened 
and  almost  strangled  at  the  same  time.  A  hand 
was  clamped  across  his  mouth,  with  force  enough 
to  push  his  teeth  down  his  throat.  A  lamp  burned 
low  in  the  room.  Whitey  saw  Mrs.  Steele  bend- 
ing over  him.  Her  face  was  ashen  with  fear.  Her 
eyes,  bulging  from  her  head,  looked  to  Whitey  to 
be  the  size  of  saucers.  Whitey  struggled  vainly 
in  her  clutch. 

"They're  going  to  kill  my  husband!"  she 
gasped.  "Go,  go  to  your  father's  ranch.  Get  the 
vigilantes.  Bring  them  here  quick,  for  God's 
sake !  They  '11  murder  him,  they  '11  murder  him ! " 

She  dragged  Whitey  from  the  bed  and,  half 
pulling  him  behind  her,  groped  her  way  to  the 
side  door  of  the  ranch  house  and  into  the  black- 
ness of  the  night.  Tied  to  a  bush,  by  a  hacka- 
more,  was  an  iron-gray  colt,  the  fastest  on  the 
ranch.  After  that  night's  work  he  was  known  to 
be  the  fastest  in  that  part  of  the  country. 
271 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

Mrs.  Steele  gave  the  half-awakened  Whitey  a 
"foot  up"  upon  the  pony,  untied  the  hackamore, 
and  he  was  gone.  Fortunately  for  Whitey  the 
horse  was  turned  in  the  right  direction.  That 
pony  had  been  wanting  to  run  ever  since 
he  was  born.  This  was  the  first  time  he  ever 
had  had  a  chance,  and  he  sure  took  advantage 
of  it. 

Back  toward  the  men's  quarters  the  night  was 
fractured  by  sounds  like  those  of  a  healthy  young 
riot.  These  meant  nothing  to  Whitey,  nor  did 
the  pung!  pung!  of  bullets,  when  he  started,  or 
rather  when  the  colt  started.  Perhaps  the  men 
were  shooting  wide,  or  perhaps  the  pony  was 
going  so  fast  the  bullets  couldn't  catch  him.  Be 
it  said  for  the  threshers  they  didn't  know  they 
were  shooting  at  a  boy. 

You  will  admit  that  being  wakened  from  a 
sound  sleep,  shot  on  to  the  back  of  an  almost  wild 
colt,  and  borne  across  a  dark  prairie  at  lightning 
speed  does  not  tend  to  make  one  think  clearly. 
Whitey  had  only  one  lucid  thought  during  that 
ride.  If  any  cowpunchers  mistook  his  white-clad 
figure  for  a  ghost,  they  couldn't  shoot  him  —  he 
^7^ 


THE  NEW  ORDER 


was  going  too  fast.  In  a  vague  way  he  was  thank- 
ful for  this. 

The  distance  was  fourteen  miles,  and  it  seemed 
to  Whitey  as  though  he  made  it  in  thirteen  jumps. 
When  the  pony  arrived  at  the  Bar  O  Ranch,  he 
still  had  the  boy  with  him.  And  when  Whitey 
pulled  up  the  restless  colt,  and  roused  the  slum- 
bering household,  he  had  another  sensation  com- 
ing, for  his  father  was  there. 

Mr.  Sherwood  had  intended  his  coming  to  the 
ranch  that  day  as  a  surprise,  and  it  was.  And 
he  had  had  a  surprise  coming  to  him.  He  had 
laughed  when  Bill  Jordan  told  him  how  he  was 
hazing  Whitey.  Then  Walt  Lampson,  of  the  Star 
Circle,  had  arrived  with  Mart  Cooley,  who  was 
now  working  for  Walt.  They  had  dropped  in  to 
see  if  Whitey  had  arrived  home  safely,  supposing 
that  he  had  started  for  home  when  he  left  the 
Star  Circle. 

When  it  was  learned  that  Whitey  wasn't  at 
home,  and  no  one  knew  where  he  was,  Mr.  Sher- 
wood had  his  surprise,  and  it  wasn't  pleasant. 
And  Bill  Jordan  looked  crestfallen.  They  had 
talked  it  over  till  late,  and  decided  to  start  a 
273 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

search  for  Whitey  in  the  morning.  Then,  when 
Whitey,  clad  in  a  large  night-shirt  and  riding  a 
half-wild  pony,  came  to  summon  the  vigilantes 

—  well,  it  seemed  a  time  for  surprises. 

The  men  hastily  dressed  and  armed  them- 
selves, summoned  all  the  others  on  the  ranch, 
and  saddled  their  horses.  While  this  is  going  on, 
at  the  risk  of  telling  you  something  you  already 
know,  a  word  about  the  vigilantes.  In  the  Old 
West  various  bodies  of  men  were  formed  to  clean 
up  the  wilder  elements.  Sometimes  they  enforced 
their  law  by  being  lawless  themselves.  They 
made  a  man  be  good  if  they  had  to  hang  him  to 
do  it.  The  law  was  weak.  By  harsh,  rough  treat- 
ment —  as  a  tigress  might  treat  its  cub  —  they 
made  it  strong.  And  when  the  law  was  strong 
and  able  to  care  for  itself  —  again  like  the  tigress 

—  they  allowed  it  to  do  so;  the  vigilantes  dis- 
banded. 

The  Bar  O  mustered  about  ten  men.  The 
rider  of  the  fastest  horse  dashed  ahead  to  the 
Junction,  to  get  reinforcements  to  join  the  ranch- 
men on  their  way  to  the  scene  of  action.  And 
now  came  bitter,  oh,  bitter!  disappointment  for 
274 


THE  NEW  ORDER 


Whitey.  He  was  not  to  be  allowed  to  go.  He  had 
been  hero  enough.  The  only  clothing  that  iron- 
gray  pony  had  on  during  that  fourteen-mile  ride 
was  a  hackamore,  and  the  only  clothing  Whitey 
had  on  was  a  night-shirt.  He  was  fit  for  nothing 
except  to  lie  face  downward  and  sleep  —  no  at- 
titude for  a  hero. 

Whitey  begged,  he  appealed,  he  almost  wept, 
but  his  father  was  firm.  He  was  willing  to  risk 
his  own  life;  he  would  not  risk  his  son's.  So,  with 
tears  in  his  eyes,  Whitey  stood  and  watched  the 
party  gallop  away  in  the  darkness.  And  beside 
him,  a  lantern  in  his  hand,  stood  the  cook,  an 
elderly  man  who  had  taken  Wong  Lee's  place. 
And  he  watched  wistfully,  too,  for  he  wanted  to 
go,  but  he  had  left  one  of  his  legs  on  a  Southern 
battle-field. 

Whitey  choked  back  a  sob  with  which  the 
silence  would  have  been  broken.  He  felt  some- 
thing warm  and  moist  on  his  hand,  and  looked 
down.  It  was  the  tongue  of  Sitting  Bull,  the 
faithful  —  forgotten  but  not  forgetting.  And  as 
Whitey  gazed  at  the  friendly  ugly  face  of  the  dog, 
he  noted  the  determination  marked  in  every 
275 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

feature  of  it.  He  could  not  imagine  any  one's 
stopping  Bull  from  going  into  a  fight  if  he 
wanted  to  go  into  it.  And  perhaps  unconsciously 
Whitey' s  under  lip  and  jaw  shot  out,  and  his  face 
took  on  much  the  expression  of  Bull's.  Whitey 
would  like  to  see  any  one  stop  him  from  going. 

That  new,  elderly  cook  not  only  approved  of 
Whitey's  purpose  of  disobedience  or  rebellion,  he 
aided  him  in  it;  yes,  if  it  cost  him  his  job!  There 
was  the  iron-gray  colt,  still  restless  and  as  ready 
for  the  fourteen-mile  ride  back  as  he  was  for  his 
breakfast.  While  Whitey  limped  into  the  ranch 
house  for  some  clothing  and  footwear,  the  cook 
had  his  own  troubles  getting  his  own  saddle  and 
bridle  on  that  pony. 

When  Whitey  reappeared  and  was  helped  into 
the  saddle,  he  let  out  a  yell  of  agony  and  helped 
himself  out  again.  This  would  never  do.  The 
leather  felt  like  hot  iron.  A  consultation.  The 
cook's  blankets  were  brought  out,  folded  and 
cinched  on  the  saddle,  the  stirrups  shortened. 
Again  Whitey  mounted.  The  torture  was  some- 
what less.  Painfully  he  galloped  away.  A  last 
look  back  showed  the  lantern  on  the  ground,  the 
276 


THE  NEW  ORDER 


cook  kneeling  beside  it,  with  both  arms  around 
Sitting  Bull,  restraining  that  warrior  from  fol- 
lowing. 

When  the  Bar  0  men  and  Lampson  and  Cooley 
were  joined  by  the  contingent  from  the  Junction, 
about  forty  determined  vigilantes  dashed  over 
the  prairie.  Their  horses  were  fresh  and  they 
made  good  speed.  The  cloudy  darkness  had 
given  way  to  starlight  that  dimly  illumined  the 
still  night.  Mr.  Sherwood  had  aimed  at  a  suffi- 
cient force  to  overawe  the  threshers,  if  possible. 
There  was  little  talk. 

They  had  made  perhaps  ten  miles  when  there 
was  a  distraction.  A  horse  came  galloping  to- 
ward them.  A  dozen  rifles  were  drawn  from  their 
gunboats.  When  the  horse  drew  near,  it  made  a 
detour,  avoiding  them,  and  eyes  accustomed  to 
the  darkness  could  see  that  it  was  riderless.  With 
no  pause,  but  commenting  on  this,  they  rode  on. 

About  two  miles  farther  on,  from  the  surface  of 
the  plain  came  a  flash  of  flame  and  the  short 
bark  of  a  forty-five,  followed  by  another  and 
another.  The  men  reined  in,  but  the  shots  were 
directed  the  other  way.  The  marksman  was  evi- 
277 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

dently  too  occupied  with  his  invisible  target  to 
notice  them.  But  on  their  nearer  approach  he 
rose  to  his  feet  and  started  to  run.  A  shot 
over  his  head,  a  sharp  command,  and  he 
halted  and  was  surrounded  by  the  vigilantes, 
but  not  before  he  had  slily  dropped  some  object 
in  the  grass.  One  of  the  men  dismounted  and 
struck  a  match. 

"Why,  it's  Henry  Dorgan!"  exclaimed  Mart 
Cooley. 

Dorgan  appeared  to  be  greatly  flustered  and  in 
pain.  His  left  arm  was  helpless  from  a  wound  in 
the  shoulder,  and  from  the  fleshy  part  of  it  an 
arrow  protruded.  It  probably  had  been  less  pain- 
ful to  leave  it  there  than  to  pull  it  out.  It  was  a 
home-made  arrow. 

"What  you  shootin'  at?"  demanded  Bill  Jor- 
dan. 

"That  infernal  Injun,"  whined  Dorgan. 
"He's  bin  pesterin'  me;  follerin'  me  like  a 
shadow." 

The  vigilantes  peered  into  the  darkness,  and 
made  out  a  hummock  on  the  prairie.  It  was  a 
dead  horse,  and  from  behind  it  Injun  rose  and 


THE  NEW  ORDER 


came  toward  the  group.  He  had  been  reassured 
by  the  sound  of  Bill's  voice. 

"Lemme  go!"  cried  Dorgan.  "I  don't  want 
no  more  truck  with  him,"  and  he  started  as  if  to 
run,  but  was  roughly  held  back. 

"What's  all  this  rumpus  about,  Injun?"  Bill 
Jordan  demanded,  when  the  boy  was  within 
hearing. 

Injun  indicated  Dorgan.  "Him  steal  Monty," 
he  said. 

"Is  that  Monty  lying  dead  over  there?"  Mr. 
Sherwood  inquired  anxiously. 

"No.  Him  run  away,"  Injun  replied. 

"Then  it  musta  bin  Monty  that  passed  us," 
said  Bill  Jordan. 

Through  short,  sharp  questioning  it  was  de- 
veloped that  Injun  had  seen  Dorgan  take  Monty 
from  the  Hanley  Ranch  corral,  had  borrowed  a 
mount  for  himself,  and  followed;  that  he  had 
winged  Dorgan  with  an  arrow,  the  shock  of  which 
had  jarred  him  so  that  he  had  fallen  from  the 
pony.  The  other  arrow  in  Dorgan's  arm  was  the 
result  of  another  lucky  shot  by  Injun.  When  the 
vigilantes  arrived,  Dorgan  was  striving  to  return 
279 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

the  compliment.  He  had  succeeded  in  killing 
Injun's  borrowed  horse,  behind  which  that  ex- 
pert young  person  had  barricaded  himself.  It 
took  but  a  minute  to  tell  this  story.  Again  Injun 
indicated  Dorgan  and  said : 

"Him  drop  something."  Running  back  in  the 
course  Dorgan  had  taken,  Injun  returned  with  a 
small  but  heavy  canvas  bag.  It  was  filled  with 
gold  and  silver  coins,  the  principal  currency  of 
the  West  in  those  days.  This  promised  interest- 
ing developments,  but  Dorgan,  who  had  fallen 
into  a  sullen  silence,  refused  to  answer  when 
questioned  about  the  bag. 

"What's  going  on  at  the  Hanley  Ranch,  In- 
jun ? "  Mr.  Sherwood  asked.  "Have  those  thresh- 
ers killed  Gil  Steele?" 

"Dunno.  Make  heap  noise.  Much  fire-wa — 
whiskey,"  said  Injun,  suddenly  remembering 
his  education.  His  object  had  been  to  "get" 
Dorgan.  His  plan  had  been  to  watch  Monty. 
The  plan  had  worked.  That  was  all  he  knew. 

"Come,  we've  lost  time  enough,"  said  Mr. 
Sherwood.  "Two  of  you  fellows  will  have  to 
ride  double.  One  take  Injun,  the  other  Dorgan. 
280 


THE  NEW  ORDER 


Injun,  you  take  Dorgan's  gun,  and  if  he  makes  a 
break,  plug  him." 

But  Dorgan  didn't  want  to  go  back  to  the 
Hanley  Ranch,  and  suddenly  he  became  very 
talkative.  He  could  explain  about  the  money 
and  Monty  and  everything. 

"No  time  for  chinning,"  Bill  Jordan  said. 
"Boost  him  up." 

"Would  you  b'lieve  a  Injun  'stead  o'  me?" 
Dorgan  wailed,  as  he  was  being  boosted  onto  the 
horse  of  a  disgusted  cowboy. 

"Sure  —  a  rattlesnake,"  declared  Bill.  And 
the  party  started,  Injun  proudly  carrying  Dor- 
gan's reloaded  six-gun. 

Except  for  the  horses  bearing  double  the  rest 
of  the  ride  was  made  at  breakneck  speed.  When 
the  vigilantes  approached  the  Hanley  Ranch 
house,  a  noise  was  heard  such  as  is  supposed  tc 
come  from  Donnybrook  Fair.  They  headed  for 
the  sounds,  but  as  they  arrived  the  racket  had 
ceased.  It  was  followed  by  an  ominous  stillness. 
This,  in  turn,  was  broken  by  a  woman's  scream. 

Over  a  score  of  men,  most  of  them  half  drunk, 
were  gathered  in  front  of  a  large  bam.  From  the 
281 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

ridge  of  this  projected  a  derrick-beam  with  a 
pulley  through  which  a  rope  was  roved.  One 
end  of  the  rope  was  in  the  hands  of  several  thresh- 
ers, the  other  was  in  a  noose  around  Gil  Steele's 
neck.  Mrs.  Steele  was  being  bound  and  gagged 
by  other  men.  The  action  of  the  group  came  to 
an  abrupt  standstill  as  the  vigilantes  dismounted 
and  crowded  into  the  foreground. 

"Unloose  that  rope,"  said  Mr.  Sherwood.  He 
released  Mrs.  Steele  himself. 

The  man  who  seemed  to  be  the  thresher's 
leader  glanced  around  at  the  vigilantes,  their 
number,  their  rifles,  and  their  Colt  guns,  fie 
unloosed  the  rope. 

"Now,  what's  all  this  about?"  demanded  Mr. 
Sherwood,  seeing  that  danger  was  averted. 

In  an  instant  Babel  broke  loose.  The  sober 
and  half-drunken  men  and  Gil  Steele  began  loud 
and  angry  explanations.  Steele  was  interrupted 
by  his  wife,  who  staggered  and  almost  fell  as  she 
threw  herself  on  his  breast  and  fainted.  Thus 
was  the  step  from  tragedy  to  comedy  taken,  but 
no  one  thought  of  laughing.  The  tragedy  was 
too  close. 

282 


THE  NEW  ORDER 


Then  came  another  interruption:  the  arrival 
of  the  double-laden  horses  with  Injun  and  Dor- 
gan.  When  the  latter  was  dragged  into  the  group, 
and  the  bag  of  money  thrown  on  the  ground  in 
front  of  him,  there  was  another  ominous  silence. 
Gil  Steele  released  himself  from  his  wife,  who 
had  recovered.  He  knelt  and  with  trembling 
fingers  undid  the  neck  of  the  bag,  and  displayed 
its  contents  of  gold  and  silver.  That  bag  of 
money  was  the  key  to  the  whole  situation.  Again 
Babel  broke  loose. 

In  time,  out  of  the  yells,  curses,  threats,  and 
other  sounds,  this  story  was  extracted :  Gil  Steele 's 
closeness,  not  to  say  meanness,  had  made  him 
more  than  unpopular.  The  threshers  who  owned 
the  machine  worked  a  percentage  of  the  grain 
which  they  carted  away  to  the  railroad.  Gil  had 
tried  to  reduce  this  percentage.  The  threshers, 
abetted  by  Henry  Dorgan,  had  tried  to  increase 
it.  Dorgan  also  had  told  the  hired  hands  that 
Steele  intended  to  reduce  their  wages.  Steele  had 
become  angry  and  refused  to  talk  to  any  of  the 
men.  In  some  mysterious  way  Dorgan  had  in- 
troduced a  keg  of  whiskey  into  the  situation. 

283 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

The  hands  had  demanded  their  money,  and 
none  was  forthcoming.  They  had  attacked  Gil 
Steele,  who  had  wounded  one  of  them  and  fled. 
It  was  then  that  Mrs.  Steele  had  sent  Whitey 
for  aid,  as  it  was  certain  that  the  infuriated  mob 
would  hang  Steele  if  they  found  him.  Gil  was 
hidden  in  a  most  unromantic  place;  a  sort  of  dug- 
out, one-third  dirt,  one-third  boards,  and  one- 
third  stone,  in  which  hams  were  smoked.  You 
know  how  near  he  came  to  going  from  that 
place  to  his  death. 

And  Henry  Dorgan  had  created  the  disturb- 
ance so  that  under  cover  of  it  he  might  steal  the 
bag  containing  the  money  for  the  men. 

When  this  fact  was  apparent  to  the  minds  of 
the  excited  hands,  they  and  Gil  Steele  made  a 
rush  for  the  cowering  Dorgan,  but  Mr.  Sherwood 
and  some  of  the  vigilantes  intervened  with  drawn 
weapons  and  forced  them  back.  The  vigilantes 
would  see  that  the  law  punished  Dorgan.  There 
was  loud-voiced  protest  against  this,  but  the 
attackers  were  outnumbered  and  were  helpless. 

During  this  Walt  Lampson  and  Mart  Cooley 
had  been  talking  apart,  and  now  Walt  stepped 
284 


THE  NEW  ORDER 


forward.  "This  law  business  is  all  well  enough," 
he  said,  "but  I  got  somethin'  t*  say  about  Dor- 
gan."  He  faced  the  crowd.  "Lots  o'  you  fellers 
are  cowmen,  ain't  you?"  he  asked.  Most  of  the 
men  were.  "When  the  Star  Circle  herd  was  stam- 
peded by  them  white-caps,"  Lampson  went  on, 
"an*  we  got  them  sheepmen  for  doin'  it,  Donald 
Spellman  cashed  in,  but  before  doin*  so  he  told 
me  who  put  up  the  job.  It  was  this  feller  Dorgan. 
Him  a  cowman,  an*  he  turned  ag'in'  his  kind  for 
money.  Are  we  goin'  t*  let  him  get  away?" 

Henry  Dorgan's  feeling  of  relief  was  gone,  and 
he  crouched  behind  Mr.  Sherwood  and  Bill  Jor- 
dan, white-faced  with  fear,  as  a  loud  "No!" 
came  from  a  majority  of  the  men.  This  turn  of 
events  caused  a  breach  in  the  vigilantes'  ranks. 
The  Bar  O  men  stood  by  Mr.  Sherwood,  but 
some  of  the  cattlemen  from  the  Junction  hated 
sheepmen  more  than  they  loved  the  law. 

"Better  give  Dorgan  up,"  Walt  Lampson  ad- 
vised Mr.  Sherwood. 

"No,"  replied  Mr.  Sherwood. 

A  movement  began  in  the  crowd.  Men  ranged 
themselves  on  one  side  or  the  other.  With  the 
185 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

Bar  O  men  and  those  left  from  the  Junction 
crowd,  Mr.  Sherwood  now  headed  about  twenty 
vigilantes;  they  were  outnumbered.  The  old 
cowpuncher,  he  of  the  Custer  story,  came  and 
stood  by  Bill  Jordan.  It  being  evident  that  it 
would  take  a  fight  to  get  Dorgan,  Walt  Lampson 
stepped  back  and  Mart  Cooley  took  his  place. 

"Mart's  a  bad  hombre,  boss,"  Bill  Jordan 
whispered  to  Mr.  Sherwood.  "You  ain't  got  no 
call  t'  get  killed.  You  better  get  out  o'  this." 

"Are  you  going  to  get  out,  Bill?"  Mr.  Sher- 
wood asked,  and  Bill  grinned. 

As  this  Western  bad  man  and  this  Eastern 
business  man  faced  each  other,  they  represented 
not  only  violence  against  law,  but  something 
else  —  the  old  order  against  the  new:  the  old 
order  that  survives  only  on  the  printed  page  and 
in  the  memory  of  man. 

"Better  give  in,"  Walt  Lampson  shouted 
from  the  crowd.  "That  skunk  Dorgan  ain't 
worth  sheddin'  blood  for." 

"The  law  is,"  Mr.  Sherwood  replied  deter- 
minedly. 

His  courage  seemed  to  make  an  impression  on 
"286 


THE  NEW  ORDER 


the  mutineers,  as  moral  courage  usually  does, 
but  not  on  Mart  Cooley,  who  was  regarding  Mr. 
Sherwood  coldly.  Mart  did  not  reach  for  a  gun. 
Your  bad  man  never  did  —  until  the  gun  was  to 
go  into  action.  And  there  was  this  silent  pause 
between  the  two  factions,  when  a  word  would 
have  meant  bloodshed. 

Whitey  had  ridden  into  the  outskirts  of  the 
scene,  unnoticed,  and  had  seen  his  father  facing 
Mart  Cooley,  the  man  who  handed  out  death  so 
easily  and  unerringly.  As  Whitey  dismounted 
and  staggered  toward  the  center  of  the  crowd,  he 
was  joined  by  Injun,  who  was  standing  near. 
Whitey' s  face  was  ashen  and  his  teeth  clenched. 
He  was  not  going  to  see  his  father  killed  if  he 
could  help  it,  though  he  had  not  the  slightest 
idea  how  he  could  help  it.  Mr.  Sherwood  ex- 
claimed angrily  when  he  saw  his  son  approach 
with  Injun. 

Near  by  stood  Mrs.  Steele,  with  clasped  hands 
and  staring  eyes,  helpless  with  fear.  The  boys' 
coming  caused  a  moment's  irresolution  in  the 
crowd.  Mrs.  Steele  saw  her  chance,  and  fear  left 
her.  She  boldly  forced  her  way  to  where  Injun 
287 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

and  Whitey  stood,  and  turned  to  her  husband, 
who  was  foremost  among  the  lynchers. 

"Gil!"  she  cried,  pointing  at  Whitey.  "You 
ain't  goin'  to  kill  this  boy?  He  saved  your  life!" 
She  saw  a  change  come  in  her  husband's  face 
and  was  quick  to  follow  up  her  advantage.  She 
grasped  Injun  by  the  arm.  "And  this  Injun," 
she  called.  "  See  what  he  did  for  you.  You  ain't 
goin'  to  fire  on  him?" 

"No,  by  — ,  I  ain't!"  said  Steele. 

In  his  thirst  for  revenge  he  had  been  willing 
enough  to  oppose  his  rescuers;  indeed,  some  of 
them  would  have  been  fighting  with  him;  but  to 
fight  against  the  boys  was  different.  He  drew  his 
gun  from  its  holster,  threw  it  on  the  ground,  went 
over  to  Whitey,  and  grasped  him  by  the  hand. 

It  would  be  hard  to  say  what  turned  the  tide 
of  that  mob's  feelings.  Whether  it  was  Whitey's 
standing  by  his  father,  Mrs.  Steele's  quick  wit,  or 
Gil's  throwing  down  his  gun,  or  all  three.  But 
the  tide  was  turned.  The  desire  to  kill  was  gone, 
and  no  one  knew  this  better  than  Mart  Cooley. 
As  he  and  Walt  Lampson  moved  toward  the 
horses,  he  paused  and  spoke  to  Mr.  Sherwood. 
288 


THE  NEW  ORDER 


"You  got  good  nerve,  all  right,"  he  said,  "and 
so  has  the  kid." 

Mr.  Sherwood  smiled,  and  Mart  Cooley  went 
on  into  the  shadows,  from  which  he  never  came 
again,  as  far  as  the  father  and  son's  lives  went. 
And  it  must  be  admitted  that  Whitey's  nerves 
were  rather  shaken  by  now,  with  the  excitement 
of  the  ride  and  the  fear  for  his  father  and  all. 
But  it  was  something  to  have  been  the  first  mes- 
senger boy  in  the  West — even  if  you  were  started 
off  as  a  joke  —  and  to  help  bring  about  the  new 
order  of  things. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
PIONEER  DAYS 

INJUN  and  Whitey  sat  on  the  veranda  of  the  Bai 
O  Ranch  house,  with  Sitting  Bull  between  them. 
One  of  Whitey's  hands  rested  on  the  head  of  the 
dog,  who  leered  at  him  lovingly.  Now  that 
Whitey  was  back,  Bull  was  so  full  of  content- 
ment that  it  almost  gave  him  indigestion. 

"Injun,  do  you  remember  the  day  Bull  came?" 
Whitey  asked.  "And  how  I  said  maybe  it  was  a 
good  omen,  and  there  ought  to  be  something  do- 
ing on  the  ranch?  Well,  there  has  been  some- 
thing doing  —  on  and  off." 

"Um,"  said  Injun,  looking  at  Bull,  with  a 
gleam  of  appreciation  in  his  eye.  "Him  good 
med'cine." 

Whitey 's  night  ride  from  the  Hanley  Ranch 
had  created  much  favorable  comment  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  Injun  had  come  in  for  his 
share  of  praise.  Some  one  called  them  "the  res- 
cuing kids."  But  Whitey  found  that  being  a  hero 
wasn't  what  it  was  cracked  up  to  be.  When  any 
290 


PIONEER  DAYS 


one  praised  him  he  was  inclined  to  blush,  and 
that  made  him  sore  at  himself. 

But  the  extraordinary  effect  of  the  affair  was 
the  change  in  Gil  Steele.  As  Bill  Jordan  said,  it 
had  "jarred  Gil  loose  from  his  meanness."  The 
result  of  this  jarring  was  that  Gil  presented 
Whitey  with  the  iron-gray  colt,  with  a  silver- 
mounted  saddle  and  bridle.  The  neighborhood 
gasped  at  that,  and  gasped  again  when  Gil  gave 
Injun  a  pair  of  gold-mounted  six-guns,  with  an 
embossed  leather  cartridge-belt  and  holsters. 
You  can  imagine  the  figure  Injun  cut  when 
decorated  with  these.  And  he  slept  with 
them  on. 

And,  pleasing  to  relate,  Gil  prospered  more 
when  he  was  generous  than  he  had  when  he  was 
mean.  In  time  he  became  very  well  off. 

Things  seemed  to  be  coming  Whitey's  way,  for 
the  school  problem  was  solved,  too.  Mr.  Sher- 
wood brought  this  news  from  the  East.  John 
Big  Moose  was  to  return.  Not  that  John  had 
been  unsuccessful  in  the  Eastern  college;  far 
from  that.  He  had  gained  the  respect  and  esteem 
of  the  students.  It  is  true  that  they  called  him 
291 


INJIJN  AND  WlilTEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

"Big  Chief,"  but  there  was  more  affection  in  the 
nickname  than  even  the  boys  suspected. 

But  John  was  like  many  another  man  —  and 
boy  —  who,  when  he  gets  what  he  wants,  finds 
that  he  doesn't  want  it  so  much,  after  all.  It  was 
not  only  that  John  longed  for  the  greater  reaches 
and  the  free  life  of  the  West;  he  felt  a  call  to  re- 
turn to  and  to  aid  his  own  people.  There  were 
plenty  of  men  to  teach  in  colleges;  there  were  few 
who  could  help  the  Indians  as  John  could. 

And  he  agreed  to  direct  Injun  and  Whitey  *s 
studies  until  the  time  came  for  them  to  go  away 
to  school,  which  would  not  be  long. 

So,  with  Henry  Dorgan  safely  in  jail  awaiting 
trial,  and  a  vacation  in  prospect,  pending  John 
Big  Moose's  return,  something  must  be  done. 
Wouldn't  do  for  the  boys  to  sit  around  twirling 
their  thumbs.  They  began  to  talk  about  this,  or 
rather  Whitey  began  to  talk  and  Injun  to  slip  in 
a  grunted  word  now  and  then;  and  suddenly 
Whitey  had  an  idea. 

Often  on  the  plains  and  in  the  mountains 
Whitey  had  thought  of  the  pioneer  days  of  the 
West;  thoughts  such  as  the  country  arouses  in 
292 


PIONEER  DAYS 


the  minds  of  all  boys  and  of  some  men.  Whitey 
could  close  his  eyes  and  imagine  that  he  saw  an 
old  wagon  train  wending  its  way  across  the  prai- 
rie, its  line  of  white-topped  schooners  drawn  by 
drooping,  tired  horses,  its  outriding  guard  of 
scouts,  clad  in  buckskin,  alert,  keen-eyed,  each 
with  a  long  rifle  resting  in  the  hollow  of  his  arm. 
Or  in  the  mountains  he  saw  an  old,  fur-capped 
trapper  crouch  behind  the  shelter  of  a  boulder, 
his  single-shot,  heavy-barreled  rifle  directed 
toward  an  unconscious,  lumbering  grizzly,  the 
trapper's  life  hanging  on  the  accuracy  of  his  one 
shot.  Yes,  like  all  boys  Whitey  was  full  of  these 
dreams. 

"Injun,  we'll  take  a  pioneer  hunting  trip!"  he 
cried. 

It  took  a  little  time  to  explain  this  matter  to 
Injun,  but  when  it  was  explained  Injun  was  keen 
for  the  plan,  too,  for  his  being  Injun  didn't  make 
him  different  from  any  other  boy  at  heart.  He 
was  to  take  his  bow  and  arrows.  Whitey  would 
borrow  an  old-fashioned  Springfield  rifle,  that 
belonged  to  his  father.  There  would  be  no  Win- 
chester repeaters,  nor  trout  rods  with  multiply- 
293 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

ing  reels,  nor  any  of  the  modern  weapons  for  slay- 
ing game  or  fish.  It  would  be  a  sort  of  return  to 
the  wild. 

And  here  the  first  trouble  arose  with  Injun; 
that  of  leaving  his  six-guns  behind.  It  took  some 
time  to  coax  him  to  do  this;  to  entrust  them  to 
the  safe  in  the  ranch  house.  But,  that  done,  it 
was  necessary  only  to  get  Mr.  Sherwood's  per- 
mission and  to  make  the  preparations.  Mr.  Sher- 
wood was  not  in  the  ranch  house,  nor  in  the  bunk 
house,  where  Bill  Jordan  was  starting  one  of  his 
lengthy  yarns.  Whitey  paused  there  for  a  mo- 
ment. 

"What  I  don't  know  about  boys  a  tongue-tied 
man  could  tell  in  half  a  second,"  Bill  was  saying. 

"A  tongue-tied  man  couldn't  tell  nothin'  in 
half  a  second,"  objected  Shorty  Palmer. 

"  "That's  just  what  I  mean,"  Bill  said.  "There 
ain't  nothin'  to  tell.  Now,  'bout  a  boy  bein* 
civil.  You  don't  often  find  one,  out  West  here, 
and  when  you  do  it's  mostly  accident;  mebbe 
inherited.  'Course  you  c'n  train  a  boy  t'  be  p'lite, 
but  you  got  t'  be  careful,  like  in  trainin'  any 
other  animal,  an'  not  take  th'  spunk  outa  him. 
294 


PIONEER  DAYS 


Most  folks  thinks  that  when  a  boy's  civil  he 
ain't  got  nothin*  else  t'  recommend  him,  but 
'tain't  allus  so.  Now,  1  knowed  a  boy,  onc't — " 

But  Whitey  fled.  He  could  not  afford  to  wait 
for  Bill's  story,  which  probably  would  take  all 
the  morning.  He  found  his  father,  overcame 
that  gentleman's  objections  to  the  pioneer  hunt- 
ing trip,  and  Injun  and  Whitey  had  a  busy  time 
gathering  the  food,  weapons,  and  clothing  for 
their  journey  to  the  mountains,  where  the  simple 
life  was  to  be  led. 

It  was  shortly  after  noon  when  they  rode  away, 
the  men  on  the  ranch  watching,  and  perhaps  each 
feeling  in  his  heart  a  little  twinge,  as  though  he'd 
like  to  be  a  kid  again,  and  up  to  some  such  boy- 
ish prank.  Whitey  was  on  Monty,  Injun  on  his 
pinto,  leading  a  pack-horse  laden  with  their  few 
belongings.  From  the  corral  the  intelligent  eyes 
of  the  iron-gray  colt  regarded  them  with  interest; 
the  colt  that  was  to  be  trained  for  racing,  and 
that  Whitey  hoped  to  ride  in  rodeos. 

This  country  was  so  full  of  game  that  all  one 
had  to  do  was  to  go  a  mile  from  any  town,  in  any 
direction,  to  find  it.  Prairie  chickens  were  most 
295 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

prolific;  the  principal  game.  They  were  so  plenti- 
ful that  one  could  walk  through  thousands  of 
them  and  they  would  part  and  allow  the  hunter 
to  move  among  them,  without  taking  wing. 

Of  course,  one  never  would  dream  of  shooting 
at  a  bird  unless  it  was  on  the  wing.  The  only 
time  that  was  excusable  was  when  hunting  for 
partridges  among  the  trees  in  the  foothills.  Usu- 
ally Injun  with  his  bow  and  arrow  would  take 
first  shot  at  the  partridge  as  it  perched  in  the 
tree  branches.  If  he  missed,  which  he  seldom  did, 
Whitey  would  let  go  his  shot-gun  when  the  par- 
tridge was  on  the  wing.  And  as  Injun  seldom 
missed,  Mr.  Partridge  lost  both  ways.  But  this 
day  the  shot-gun  was  at  home,  so  Injun  bagged 
all  the  partridges  they  needed  for  food. 

The  prairie  chickens  have  a  peculiar  call.  First 
the  hens  cry,  in  a  high,  treble,  "Chuck-luck, 
chuck-a-luck!"  and  the  male  replies,  in  a  deep, 
full  sound,  " Bomb-bombo-boo ! " 

In  that  part  of  the  country  there  was  a  rather 
eccentric  character  named  Charlie  Clark.  He 
had  been  creased  on  the  head  by  a  bullet  some- 
time, somehow,  and  he  was  not  exactly  all  there. 

296 


PIONEER  DAYS 


And  Injun  and  Whitey  used  to  interpret  the 
calls  of  the  prairie  chicks  to: 

"Char-lie  —  Clar-k  —  Char-lie  —  Clar-k  — 
Char-lie  —  Clar-k  — "  for  the  hens,  and: 

"Darn'd  ol-fool  — "  for  the  males. 

And  so  the  boys  went  on  their  merry,  heedless 
way.  They  expected  to  camp  in  the  foothills 
that  night,  and  had  made  about  ten  miles  in  a 
leisurely  way,  when  Injun  happened  to  look 
back  and  saw  an  object  approaching  them  in  an 
uncertain  and  wobbly  but  determined  manner. 
Injun's  sharp  eyes  soon  identified  it  as  Sitting 
Bull.  The  boys  were  first  surprised,  then  sorry 
that  Bull  should  have  had  such  a  long  pursuit, 
but  that  did  not  keep  back  Whitey's  laughter 
when  Bull  staggered  up  to  where  they  waited  for 
htm.  He  sure  was  a  happy  dog,  and  fatigue  did 
not  keep  him  from  showing  it,  his  method  being 
to  twist  his  body  into  almost  a  half-circle,  wag 
his  stump  tail,  and  prance  about  gazing  delight- 
edly up  at  the  boys. 

As  a  hunting  companion  he  was  a  frost.  Look- 
ing at  it  in  that  light,  and  after  deep  considera- 
tion, Injun  spoke.  "Him  must  go  back,"  he  said 
297 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

"How?"  asked  Whitey. 

More  profound  thought,  and  Injun  spoke 
again.  "Me  take  him,"  he  decided. 

"Oh,"  said  Whitey,  "and  I  wait  up  in  the 
mountains  alone.  Perhaps  you  wouldn't  mind 
sending  me  daily  or  hourly  reports  of  Bull's  con- 
dition while  he  is  recovering  from  the  fatigue  of 
his  journey."  Injun  didn't  know  whether  this  was 
sarcasm,  or  if  he  was  being  kidded,  and  he  didn't 
care.  His  was  a  serious  mind  that  was  not  easily 
turned  to  light  thoughts.  "No,"  said  Whitey, 
"he  goes  with  us.  I  can't  bear  to  disappoint  him." 
And  perhaps  Injun  was  better  satisfied  at  this 
decision,  though  he  did  not  express  himself. 

So  the  journey  was  resumed.  Fora  time  Whitey 
would  carry  Bull.  When  he  tired,  Injun  would 
carry  Bull  awhile.  When  Injun  tired,  Bull  would 
waddle  a  way.  It  was  a  strange  way  for  a  dog  to 
go  hunting. 

As  we  are  soon  to  part  from  Injun  and  Whitey, 
there  is  one  more  thing  I  feel  that  I  should  tell 
you  about  them.  In  a  way  I  don't  like  to  tell  it, 
in  another  way  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  tell  it  and 
—  anyway,  I'm  going  to  tell  it  and  to  call  it: 
298 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

"IN  MEMORY" 

UP  in  the  mountains,  about  two  miles  northwest 
of  Moose  Lake,  was  a  hole  which  old  Mother 
Nature  had  carelessly  left  there,  and  afterwards 
thoughtfully  filled  with  water.  The  water  was 
blue  —  probably  in  imitation  of  the  near-by  sky 
—  so  the  place  was  called  Blue  Lake. 

At  Moose  Lake  there  was  a  cabin  and  a  canoe, 
as  you  may  remember,  and  to  Injun  and  Whitey 
that  had  seemed  too  civilized  for  a  pioneer  hunt- 
ing trip.  So  they  had  fished  the  canoe  out  of  the 
lake,  and  had  made  a  portage  with  it.  The  canoe 
was  light,  and  a  boy  could  carry  it  over  his  head 
for  quite  a  distance  before  he  got  tired  or  fell  over 
a  rock. 

Blue  Lake  was  an  ideal  place  for  a  wild  camp. 
It  was  almost  circular  and  nearly  a  mile  in  diam- 
eter. To  the  north  its  shore  blended  with  the 
heights  that  led  to  the  peaks;  heights  clad  with  a 
rugged  growth  of  pines  and  firs  that  extended 
toward  the  timber  line.  There  was  nothing  gen- 
tie  or  park-like  about  the  Blue  Lake. 
299 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

Its  chilly  depths  were  spring-fed,  and  sheltered 
trout  that  were  far  from  logy.  They  would  put 
up  an  awful  fight  for  life,  and  as  the  boys  were 
using  back-to-nature  poles,  made  from  the 
branches  of  trees,  the  fish  tried  the  patience  even 
of  Injun. 

When  not  tied  to  a  tree  Sitting  Bull's  part  in 
the  hunting  was  to  interfere  with  matters  as 
much  as  possible.  As  a  hunting  dog  he  had  only 
one  advantage;  he  didn't  bark.  But  he  deserved 
no  credit  for  that.  It  wasn't  his  nature  to  bark. 
As  Bull  tore  enthusiastically  about,  Whitey 
would  watch  him  with  a  rueful  smile,  and  say, 
"The  only  way  he  could  help  would  be  by  going 
home,  and  of  course  he  can't  do  that." 

In  early  October  a  crisp  morning  found  Injun 
and  Whitey  leaving  camp  to  begin  what  for  them 
was  a  special  day's  hunting.  They  were  going 
for  deer.  The  deer  loved  the  secluded  shores  of 
the  lake,  and  some  distance  from  the  camp  a  run 
led  to  a  spot  where  the  animals  came  down  to 
drink.  This  morning  the  camp  was  down  the 
wind  from  that  spot;  so  it  was  ideal.  The  boys 
planned  to  go  in  the  canoe,  and  Sitting  Bull  was 
300 


IN  MEMORY 


securely  tied  to  a  tree  to  await  their  return.  But 
Bull  looked  so  longing,  so  lonely,  there  was  so 
much  entreaty  in  his  eyes,  that  Whitey  allowed 
his  heart  to  overrule  his  head. 

"He  can't  raise  much  of  a  row  in  the  canoe, 
and  he  won't  bark,"  Whitey  said  rather  shame- 
facedly. "Let's  take  him  along." 

Injun  said  nothing,  as  usual,  but  he  didn't  look 
disapproving.  So  they  got  into  their  canoe  and 
paddled  up  the  wind  until  near  the  run,  where 
they  found  a  low,  overhanging  branch  and  ran 
the  canoe  under  it.  So  masked  they  waited  for 
Mr.  Deer  to  come  and  drink. 

In  about  an  hour  he  came  and  with  him  was 
Mrs.  Deer,  or  maybe  it  was  his  daughter,  and 
not  his  wife,  for  she  looked  so  young  and  timid 
one  hardly  could  picture  her  as  the  mate  of  Mr. 
Deer.  He  was  a  big  fellow  who  would  weigh 
about  four  hundred  pounds,  and  had  fourteen 
points  —  little  branches  shooting  off  his  horns. 

It  was  Injun's  turn  to  shoot  first,  and  he  pulled 

back  his  bowstring  and  braced  himself  to  let  go. 

Right  here  it  may  be  said  that  at  thirty  yards  an 

arrow  propelled  by  an  Indian-made  bow  is  just 

301 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

as  deadly  as  a  bullet,  if  it  hits  its  mark.  But  In- 
jun shot  a  little  high  and  caught  the  buck  in  the 
shoulder.  He  threw  up  his  head  and  let  out  a 
roar  of  battle,  looking  every  inch  the  magnificent 
creature  that  he  was,  and  just  churned  the  waters 
of  the  lake,  which  he  was  in  up  to  his  knees. 

He  didn't  have  very  long  to  bellow  his  defi- 
ance, for  Whitey's  Springfield  rifle  spoke.  Now 
Mr.  Deer  turned  almost  completely  over  from 
the  shock,  but  again  the  hit  was  not  in  a  vital 
spot.  The  canoe  was  rocking  a  little,  and  Mr. 
Deer  was  not  exactly  posing  to  be  shot  at.  And 
there  was  another  excuse  that  I  have  mentioned 
before  —  buck  fever:  the  disease  that  comes 
when  a  big  buck  deer  jumps  up  from  nowhere, 
and  causes  the  hunter  to  lose  his  head  and  do 
the  wrong  thing. 

You  would  think  that  Injun  and  Whitey  would 
have  been  over  that?  Well,  perhaps  they  should 
have  been  immune,  but  you  will  remember  that 
our  mighty  hunters  were  just  boys,  and  even 
frontier  boys  can  be  excused  for  a  sudden  attack 
of  a  complaint  that  grownups  have.  And  the 
grownup  who  says  that  he  never  has  had  it,  at 
302 


IN  MEMORY 


some  time  in  his  life,  that  Mr.  Grownup  has  not 
done  any  deer  hunting,  or  that  Mr.  Grownup 
lies.  And  what's  more,  some  grownups  never  get 
over  it. 

Perhaps  Sitting  Bull  had  given  the  fever  to 
Injun,  for  the  dog  was  trembling  so  that  he  shook 
the  canoe;  each  particular  hair  stood  on  end,  and 
if  any  one  had  stroked  Bull,  he  probably  would 
have  got  the  electric  shock  of  his  life.  Anyway, 
Injun  sure  had  buck  fever  for  the  first  time  in 
his  young  life,  for  in  bracing  himself  for  his  next 
shot  he  sat  too  far  back  on  his  left  leg,  and  when 
he  let  go  his  arrow,  over  went  the  canoe.  All 
hopes  for  a  successful  issue  of  that  battle  would 
have  ended  right  there  had  not  Injun's  arrow  by 
a  lucky  shot  gone  straight  into  Mr.  Deer's  heart. 
With  one  mighty  lunge  in  the  air  he  fell  back  in 
the  water  toward  the  shore,  where  his  horns  and 
part  of  his  body  remained  above  the  surface. 
When  the  canoe  went  over,  Whitey  held  his  rifle 
high  over  his  head,  so  it  was  still  dry  and  ready 
for  use  —  a  needless  precaution  in  this  case. 

I  hate  to  write  this  part  of  the  story.  The 
deer's  daughter —  she  must  have  been  his  daugh- 
303 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

ter  —  had  lots  and  lots  of  chances  to  run  away, 
but  she  didn't  do  it.  She  just  stood  there  like 
the  poor,  timid,  scared  thing  she  was,  with  every 
quiver  of  her  graceful  body,  every  look  of  her 
big,  brown,  childlike  eyes  saying,  "Please,  why 
did  you  kill  my  father,  who  was  my  only  pro- 
tector? And  please,  please  don't  hurt  me!" 

Did  you,  Mr.  or  Miss  Reader,  ever  have  a 
helpless  animal  look  at  you  in  that  way?  If  you 
did,  you  know  it's  awful  —  awful  to  REMEMBER! 

Whitey  fired.  He  couldn't  miss  at  that  dis- 
tance. And  he  ran  forward  to  force  Miss  Deer  to 
fall  on  the  bank,  clear  of  the  water,  which  she 
did.  She  looked  at  Whitey  while  he  was  shoving 
her  over.  Whitey  nor  no  one  else  can  ever  de- 
scribe that  look,  and  Whitey,  boy  as  he  was, 
turned  away  his  head  as  she  fell.  Injun  stood  by 
dripping,  silent,  his  face  a  mask  for  his  feelings. 
And  Sitting  Bull  was  shivering,  but  not  with 
cold  or  excitement;  he  had  caught  the  dying  look 
of  the  doe.  And  Bull's  ugly  face  reflected  the 
feelings  of  his  heart,  that  was  both  brave  and 
gentle,  for  actually,  yes,  actually!  there  were 
tears  in  Bull's  eyes. 

304 


IN  MEMORY 


The  canoe  was  brought  to  shore,  the  water 
was  dumped  out  of  it,  the  paddles  were  recovered. 
Then  a  rope  was  fastened  to  Mr.  Deer,  and  by 
means  of  a  log  lever  he  was  hauled  out  of  the 
lake  and  dressed.  But  Injun  didn't  talk  and 
Whitey  didn't  talk.  And  Bull  didn't  wander 
around  as  usual  and  smell  the  scents  that  gave 
him  so  much  excitement  and  delight,  and  that  the 
boys  couldn't  smell  at  all.  The  deer's  head,  hide, 
and  some  of  the  meat  were  put  into  the  canoe. 
The  rest  of  the  meat  was  tied  high  in  trees,  safe 
from  marauding  animals.  The  boys  didn't  touch 
Miss  Deer.  They  got  into  the  canoe  with  Bull 
and  paddled  away.  They  didn't  look  back. 

The  rest  of  the  day  and  evening  were  spent  in 
a  constrained  silence.  Sitting  Bull  felt  the  con- 
straint. He  lay  on  the  ground,  his  great  head 
between  his  paws,  and  moodily  watched  the 
boys.  Several  hours  had  passed ;  it  was  night,  at 
the  camp-fire;  still  no  words  had  been  spoken. 
Finally  Whitey  stopped  looking  into  the  fire  and 
stood  up  straight. 

"Injun,  where's  the  spade?"  he  asked.  "I've 
got  something  to  do." 

305 


INJUN  AND  WHITEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 

Injun  answered  Whitey's  question,  but  asked 
none  of  his  own.  "Me  go  help,"  he  said. 

With  Sitting  Bull  as  a  passenger,  they  pad- 
dled the  canoe  back  over  the  moonlit  lake  until 
they  came  to  the  run.  And  the  two  boys  dug  a 
grave  for  Miss  Deer,  and  laid  her  in  that  grave 
just  as  she  fell,  and  covered  it  with  a  pile  of  stones 
so  the  coyotes  couldn't  touch  her.  And  when  the 
morning  sun  came  up  over  the  hills,  Injun  and 
Whitey  were  in  a  new  camp  miles  away., 

Injun  said  nothing  to  Whitey  and  Whitey  said 
nothing  to  Injun,  but  to  the  day  of  his  death 
Injun  never  shot  at  a  Miss  Deer  again.  And  al- 
though Whitey  is  now  a  middle-aged  man,  to 
this  day  he  has  never  again  shot  at  a  Miss  Deer. 
Nor  has  he  ever  forgotten  the  look  in  the  eyes  of 
that  Miss  Deer  which  those  boys  buried  on  the 
bank  of  Blue  Lake,  twenty-six  years  ago. 


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You  will  find  more  than  five  hundred 
titles  to  choose  from — books  for  every- 
mood  and  every  taste  and  every  pocket- 
book. 

Don't  forget  the  other  side,  but  in  case 
the  wrapper  is  lost,  write  to  the  publishers 
for  a  complete  catalog. 


There  is  a  Grosset  &  Dunlaf)  Book 
for  every  mood  and  for  every  taste 


EDGAR  RICE  BURROUGHS  NOVELS 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  soldi    Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  listi 

THE  MAD  KING 

THE  MOON  MAID 

THE  ETERNAL  LOVER 

BANDIT  OF  HELL'S  BEND,  THE 

CAVE  GIRL,  THE 

LAND  THAT  TIME  FORGOT,  THE 

TARZAN  OF  THE  APES 

TARZAN  AND  THE  JEWELS  OF  OPAR 

TARZAN  AND  THE  ANT  MEN 

TARZAN  THE  TERRIBLE 

TARZAN  THE  UNTAMED 

BEASTS  OF  TARZAN,  THE 

RETURN  OF  TARZAN,  THE 

SON  OF  TARZAN,  THE 

JUNGLE  TALES  OF  TARZAN 

AT  THE  EARTH'S  CORE 

PELLUCIDAR 

THE  MUCKER 

A  PRINCESS  OF  MARS 

GODS  OF  MARS,  THE 

WARLORD  OF  MARS,  THE 

THUVIA,  MAID  OF  MARS 

CHESSMEN  OF  MARS,  THE 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  Publishers,   NEW  YORK 


JAMES  OLIVER  CURWOOD'S 

STORIES  OF  ADVENTURE 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.     Ask  for  Grosset  ft  Dunlap's  list  ~~~ 

A  GENTLEMAN  OF  COURAGE 
THE  ALASKAN 


THE  COUNTRY  BEYOND 
THE  FLAMING  FOREST 
THE  VALLEY  OF  SILENT  MEN 
THE  RIVER'S  END 


THE  GOLDEN  SNARE 

NOMADS  OF  THE  NOFVTH 

KAZAN 

BAREE,  SON  OF  KAZAN 

THE  COURAGE  OF  CAPTAIN  PLUM 

THE  DANGER  TRAIL 

THE  HUNTED  WOMAN 


THE  FLOWER  OF  THE  NORTH 

THE  GRIZZLY  KING 

ISOBEL 

THE  WOLF  HUNTERS 


THE  GOLD  HUNTERS 

THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

BACK  TO  GOD'S  COUNTRY 


GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,    Publishers,    NEW  YORK 


ZANE  GREY'S  NOVELS 

May  be  "had  wherever  books  are  sold.     Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list 

THE  VANISHING  AMERICAN 

THE  THUNDERING  HERD 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  CANYON 

WANDERER  OF  THE  WASTELAND 

TO  THE  LAST  MAN 

THE  MYSTERIOUS  RIDER 

THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

THE  U.  P.  TRAIL 

WILDFIRE 

THE  BORDER  LEGION 

THE  RAINBOW  TR£IL 

THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  DESERT 

RIDERS  OF  THE  PURPLE  SAGE 

THE  LIGHT  OF  WESTERN  STARS 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  PLAINSMEN 

THE  LONE  STAR  RANGER 

DESERT  GOLD 

BETTY  ZANE 

THE  DAY  OF  THE  BEAST 

*****•• 
LAST  OF  THE  GREAT  SCOUTS 

The  life  story  of  "Buffalo  Bill"  by  his  sister  Helen  Cody  Wet- 
more,  with  Foreword  and  conclusion  by  Zane  Grey. 

ZANE  GREY'S  BOOKS  FOR  BOYS 

ROPING  LIONS  IN  THE  GRAND  CANYON 
KEN  WARD  IN  THE  JUNGLE 
THE  YOUNG  LION  HUNTER 
THE  YOUNG  FORESTER 
THE  YOUNG  PITCHER 
THE  SHORT  STOP 

THE  RED-HEADED  OUTFIELD  AND  OTHER 
BASEBALL  STORIES 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,   Publishers,  NEW  YORK 


RAFAEL  SABATINI'S   NOVELS 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.    Ask  for  Grosset  and  Dun'ap's  list. 

Jesi,  a  diminutive  city  of  the  Italian  Marches,  was  the  birth- 
place of  Rafael  Sabatini,  and  here  he  spent  his  early  youth.  The 
city  is  glamorous  with  those  centuries  the  author  makes  live  again 
in  his  novels  with  all  their  violence  and  beauty. 

Mr.  Sabatini  first  went  to  school  in  Switzerland  and  from  there 
to  Lycee  of  Oporto,  Portugal,  and  like  Joseph  Conrad,  he  has 
never  attended  an  English  school.  But  English  is  hardly  an 
adopted  language  for  him,  as  he  learned  it  from  his  mother,  an 
English  woman  who  married  the  Maestro-Cavaliere  Vincenzo 
Sabatini. 

Today  Rafael  Sabatini  is  regarded  as  "  The  Alexandre  Dumaa 
of  Modern  Fiction." 

MISTRESS  WILDING 

A  romance  of  the  days  of  Monmouth's  rebellion.  The  action  is  rapid,  Ita 
style  is  spirited,  and  its  plot  is  convincing. 

FORTUNE'S  FOOL 

All  who  enjoyed  the  lurid  lights  of  the  French  Revolution  with  Scara' 
mouche,  or  the  brilliant  buccaneering  days  of  Peter  Blood,  or  the  adven- 
tures of  the  Sea-Hawk,  the  corsair,  •will  now  welcome  with  delight  a  turn 
In  Restoration  London  with  the  always  masterful  Col.  Randall  Holies. 

BARDELYS  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

An  absorbing  story  of  love  and  adventure  in  France  of  the  early  seven- 
teenth century. 

THE  SNARE 

It  Is  a  story  In  which  fact  and  fiction  are  delightfully  k.1  ,r,ded  and  one 
that  is  entertaining  in  high  degree  from  first  to  last. 

CAPTAIN  BLOOD 

The  story  has  glamor  and  beauty,  and  it  is  told  with  :  t  eaay  confidence. 
As  for  Blood  himself,  he  is  a  superman,  compounded  of  •  $x  donic  humor, 
cold  nerves,  and  hot  temper.  Both  the  story  and  the  mu-O  are  masterpieces, 
A  great  figure,  a  great  epoch,  a  great  story. 

THE  SEA-HAWK 

"  The  Sea-Hawk  "  is  a  book  of  fierce  bright  color  arid  amazing  adventure 
through  which  stalks  one  ot  the  truly  great  and  uiaste'.'ful  figures  of  ro- 
mance. 

SCARAMOUCHE 

Never  will  the  reader  forget  the  sardonic  Scars  mouehe.who  fights  equally 
well  with  tongue  and  rapier,  who  was  "born  wit.',;  '^he  gift  of  laughter  and  a 
sense  that  the  world  was  mad." 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,    Publishers,    NEW  YORK 


JACKSON  GREGORY'S  NOVELS 

May  ba  had  wherever  books  are  sold.     Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list 

THE  MAID  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN 

A  thrilling  story,  centering  about  a  lovely  and  original  girl  who  flees 
to  the  mountains  to  avoid  an  obnoxious  suitor — and  finds  herself  suspec- 
ted of  murder. 

DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SUN 

A  tale  of  Aztec  treasure — of  American  adventurers  who  seek  It—of 
Zoraida,  who  hides  it. 

TIMBER -WOLF 

This  is  a  story  of  action  and  of  the  wide  open,  dominated  always  by 
the  heroic  figure  of  Timber-Wolf. 

THE  EVERLASTING  WHISPER 

The  story  of  a  strong  man's  struggle  against  savage  nature  and  hu- 
manity, and  of  a  beautiful  girl's  regeneration  from  a  spoiled  child  of  wealth 
into  a  courageous  strong-willed  woman. 

' DESERT  VALLEY 

A  college  professor  sets  out  with  his  daughter  to  find  gold.  They  meet 
a  rancher  who  loses  his  heart,  and  becomes  involved  in  a  feud. 

MAN  TO  MAN 

How  Steve  won  his  game  and  the  girl  he  loved,  is  a  story  filled  with 
breathless  situations. 

THE  BELLS  OF  SAN  JUAN 

Dr.  Virginia  Page  is  forced  to  go  with  the  sheriff  on  a  night  journey 
into  the  strongholds  of  a  lawless  band. 

JUDITH  OF  BLUE  LAKE  RANCH 

Judith  Sanford  part  owner  of  a  cattle  ranch  realizes  she  is  being  robbed 
by  her  foreman.  With  the  help  of  Bud  Lee,  she  checkmates  Trevor's  scheme. 

THE  SHORT  CUT 

Wayne  is  suspected.of  killing  hit  brother  after  a  quarrel.  Financial  com- 
plications, a  horse-race  and  beautiful  Wanda,  make  up  a  thrilling  romanct. 
THE  JOYOUS  TROUBLE  MAKER 

A  reporter  sets  up  housekeeping  close  to  Beati  ;e's  Ranch  much  to  her 
chagrin.    There  is     another  man  "  who  complicates  matters. 
SIX  FEET  FOUR 

Beatrice  Waverly  U  robbed  of  $5,000  and  suspicion  fastens  upon  Buck 
Thornton,  but  she  «oon  realizes  he  is  not  guilty. 

WOLF  BREED 

No  Luck  Drennan,  a  weman  hater  and  sharp  of  tongue,  finds  a  match 
in  Ygerne  whose  clever  fencing  wins  the  admiration  and  love  of  th« 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAR    Publishers.   NEW  YORK 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
Lot  Angeles 


MAR  07  199 
tLL/pAU 
DUE  2 IWRSTRD^DATEPECEIVED 


315 


L  005  115  582  8 


